And he the glitter of the dew Bashful, lo! she bends her head, Well pleased I hear the whispered "No!" And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy The gentle violence of joy. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. LXXIX. KISSES. JENNY KISSED ME. JENNY kissed me when we met, Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; Say that health and wealth have missed me; Say I'm growing old, but add Jenny kissed me ! James Henry Leigh Hunt. LXXX. LOVE'S TIME OF ROSES. IT was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses : We plucked them as we passed. That churlish season never frowned Oh, no-the world was newly crowned 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go. We plucked them as we passed. Thomas Hood. LXXXI. LOVE'S GARDEN-WAITING. COME into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown ; Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, All night have the roses heard The flute, violin bassoon : All night has the casement jessamine stirred Till a silence fell with the waking bird, I said to the lily, "There is but one Now half to the setting moon are gone, Low on the sand and loud on the stone I said to the rose, "The brief night goes O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall; And long by the garden gate I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet, That whenever a March-wind sighs, He sets the jewel print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet The slender acacia would not shake The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, She is near, she is near;" She is coming, my own, my sweet; Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. Alfred Tennyson. LXXXII. LOVE'S GOOD-NIGHT. GOOD-NIGHT? Ah, no! the hour is ill Then it will be good night, How can I call the lone night good, To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. Percy Bysshe Shelley. LXXXIII. LOVE'S DISSEMBLING. THE merchant, to secure his treasure, My softest verse, my darling lyre When Cloe noted her desire, That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs; And whilst I sing Euphel'a's praise, I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes. Fair Cloe blushed: Euphelia frowned: I sung, and gazed; I played, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remarked how ill we all dissembled. Matthew Prior. LXXXIV. LOVE'S APRIL DAY. THE lovely Delia smiles again; Can she forgive my jealous pain, And give me back my angry vow? Love is an April's doubtful day: F |