A Book of English Love Poems

There grows a flower on every bough;
Sing heigh-ho!

There grows a flower on every bough,
Its petals kiss-I'll show you how:
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!
Young maids must marry.

From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Sing heigh-ho!

From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Each finds a mate and leads her home
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!

Young maids must marry.

;

The sun's a bridegroom, earth a bride;
Sing heigh-ho!

They court from morn till eventide :

The earth shall pass, but love abide.
Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho!

Young maids must marry.

CHARLES KINGSLEY

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 1

O from me. Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my

Yet I feel that I shall stand

hand

Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore,
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land

1 These are Nos. 6, 7, 14, 28, and 42.

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes, the tears of two.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

THE

HE face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me; as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink Of obvious death, where I who thought to sink Was caught up into love, and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear. The names of country, heaven, are changed away For where thou art or shalt be, there or here And this... this lute and song ... loved yesterday, (The singing angels know) are only dear,

;

Because thy name moves right in what they say.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

her way

F thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say,
"I love her for her smile . . . her look . .
Of speaking gently, . . . for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee,-and love so wrought,

Neither love me for

May be unwrought so.
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—
Since one might well forget to weep who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby !
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

MY letters! all dead paper,

mute and white !

And yet they seem alive and quivering

Against my tremulous hands, which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said, . . . he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand. a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it!—this,
the paper's light...
Said, Dear, I love thee: and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past:
This said, I am thine-and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast :

. .

And this O Love, thy words have ill availed,
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

OW do I love thee?

Let me count the ways.

Hove thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise;

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

INCLUSIONS

H, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in

OH,

thine;

As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and

pine !

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear,

. . unfit to plight

with thine.

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run

down.

Now leave a little space, Dear,

thine own.

lest it should wet

Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy

soul?

grows

Red

the cheek, and warm the hand, is in the whole !

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to

soul.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

THER

INSUFFICIENCY

HERE is no one beside thee, and no one above thee; Thou standest alone, as the nightingale sings! And my words that would praise thee,are impotent things, For none can express thee, though all should

approve thee.

I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

Say, what can I do for thee?

grieve thee?

Lean on thy shoulder.