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Maiden Eyes

But when stars and twilight meet,
And the dew is falling sweet,

And thou hear'st my coming feet,—

Then-thou then-mayst heed me!

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Charles Swain [1801-1874]

ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?

WE see them not-we cannot hear

The music of their wing

Yet know we that they sojourn near,
The Angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground
When the first violet grows;

Their graceful hands have just unbound
The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast,
From stain and shadow free:

That which an Angel's touch hath blest

Is meet, my love, for thee!

Robert Stephen Hawker [1803-1875]

MAIDEN EYES

You never bade me hope, 'tis true;
I asked you not to swear:
But I looked in those eyes of blue,
And read a promise there.

The vow should bind, with maiden sighs
That maiden lips have spoken:

But that which looks from maiden eyes

Should last of all be broken.

Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]

HALLOWED PLACES

I PASS my days among the quiet places

Made sacred by your feet.

The air is cool in the fresh woodland spaces,
The meadows very sweet.

The sunset fills the wide sky with its splendor,
The glad birds greet the night;

I stop and listen for a voice strong, tender,
I wait those dear eyes' light.

You are the heart of every gleam of glory,
Your presence fills the air,

About you gathers all the fair year's story;
I read you everywhere.

Alice Freeman Palmer [1855-1902]

THE LADY'S "YES"

"YES," I answered you last night;
"No," this morning, sir, I say:
Colors seen by candle-light

Will not look the same by day.

When the viols played their best,

Lamps above, and laughs below,

Love me sounded like a jest,
Fit for yes or fit for no.

Call me false or call me free,
Vow, whatever light may shine,-

No man on your face shall see
Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both;

Time to dance is not to woo;
Wooing light makes fickle troth,
Scorn of me recoils on you.

Song

Learn to win a lady's faith

Nobly, as the thing is high, Bravely, as for life and death, With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,-
Point her to the starry skies,
Guard her, by your truthful words,
Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore;
And her yes, once said to you,

SHALL be Yes for evermore.

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And she is grown so dear, so dear,

That I would be the jewel

That trembles in her ear;

For hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me,

In sorrow and in rest;

And I should know if it beat right,

I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise

Upon her balmy bosom

With her laughter or her sighs;

And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasped at night.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

LILIAN

AIRY, fairy Lilian,

Flitting, fairy Lilian,

When I ask her if she love me,

Clasps her tiny hand above me,

Laughing all she can;

She'll not tell me if she love me,

Cruel little Lilian.

When my passion seeks

Pleasance in love-sighs,

She, looking through and through me,
Thoroughly to undo me,

Smiling, never speaks:

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,
From beneath her gathered wimple
Glancing with black-beaded eyes,
Till the lightning laughters dimple
The baby-roses in her cheeks;
Then away she flies.

Prithee weep, May Lilian!

Gaiety without eclipse

Wearieth me, May Lilian:

Through my very heart it thrilleth,

When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter thrilleth:

Prithee weep, May Lilian!

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Ronsard to His Mistress

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BUGLE SONG

From "The Princess"

THE splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS

"Quand vous serez bien vieille, le soir à la chandelle
Assise auprès du feu devisant et filant,

Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant,
Ronsard m'a célébré du temps que j'étois belle."

SOME winter night, shut snugly in

Beside the fagot in the hall,

I think I see you sit and spin,

Surrounded by your maidens all.
Old tales are told, old songs are sung,
Old days come back to memory;
You say, "When I was fair and young,
A poet sang of me!"

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