love poem

My land is a woman who knows
Not the child at her breast.
All her quest
Hath been gold.
All her joys, all her woes
With the thin, yellow leaf are unrolled.
And here is my grief that no longer she cares
For the tumult that crowds in a rune
When the white curving throat of a cataract bares
In a song to the high floating moon.
I am Caneo,
The poet she loves not, grown bold.
Bold am I as all men grow bold
Who wash themselves long in the sun:
I know what she lost when she gathered the gold

O charity! thou heav'nly grace,
All-tender, soft, and kind,
A friend to all the human race,
To all that's good inclin'd!

The man of charity extends
To all his helping hand;
His kindred, neighbors, foes, and friends,
His pity may command.

He aids the poor in their distress;
He hears when they complain;
With tender heart delights to bless,
And lessen all their pain.

The sick, the pris'ner, deaf, and blind,
And all the sons of grief,
In him a benefactor find;

How blest are they whom mutual passions move
To seal a contract at the shrine of love;
From whose fond hearts the same affections flow,
To join in pleasure, and partake of woe.
If thro' life's course full prosp'rous blows the gale,
And fortune revels in the swelling sail;
One heart expands to see the other fill,
Whilst each anticipates its partner's will.
One just is pleas'd as th'other teems with joy,
And mutual pleasures flow without alloy.
Their wish, when death the busy scene wou'd close,

( " Vous êtes singulier. " )

Marion ( smiling ). You're strange, and yet I love you thus.
D IDIER. You love me?
Beware, nor with light lips utter that word.
You love me! — know you what it is to love
With love that is the life-blood in one's veins,
The vital air we breathe, a love long-smothered,
Smouldering in silence, kindling, burning, blazing,
And purifying in its growth the soul.
Allove that from the heart eats every passion
But its sole self; love without hope or limit,
Deep love that will outlast all happiness;

Sylvia! see yon wanton turtles,
Ever billing, ever gay,
Perch'd on Venus ' verdant myrtles,
Ev'ry month the month of May!
All the day,
Love and play;
O how happy, happy they!

Mark the bliss of ev'ry creature,
The delights of ev'ry grove;
All, one jubilee of nature,
All, one gen'ral feast of love!
All the day,
Love and play;
O how happy, happy they!

Mark the shepherd in yon alley,
On his mistress' lap reclin'd;
Lambkins, straying on the valley,

( " Orphee au bois du Caystre. " )

Orpheus, in Cayster's tangled
Woodways, 'neath the stars' pale light,
Listened laughters weird and jangled
Of the viewless ones of night.

Phtas, the Theban sibyl, dreaming
Nigh the hushed Phygalian heights,
Saw on far horizon streaming
Ebon forms 'mong silvery lights.

Æschylus, soft hazes threading
Of sweet Sicily, soul-subdued

If power of warre had yeelded to renowne,
Of curteous hartes, the Gods had then agreede:
Disgraded S ATVRNE had not tumbled downe,
Nor loue had durst in Goldlike Artes proceede.
O cowardly Gods against your kinde to see,
Your selues, your sonnes, the slaues of loue to bee.

Could loue take league with I OVE against his will,
Or staine the streame of N EPTVNES water Springs:
And could not P LVTO keepe his honor still,
But giue the Heauens and Hilles to other kings?
In faith the face amongst sweete soules should dwell,

When viewing those who're passing by,
Unmov'd you others see,
But sudden still withdraw your eye,
If chance it fall on me.

What shall I think? Can I or be
Object of love or hate?
From this suspence, ah! set me free,
And quickly tell my fate.

Of earthly bliss what most I wish to find
Is the affection of a kindred mind,
From fair to fair still ceaseless turns my breast,
And seeks a love in which at last to rest.
I boast not fortune's gifts, as little claim
I boast not fortune's gifts, as little claim
The splendour of a long-descended name;
I only boast a heart with passion mov'd,
That, loving, likewise merits to be lov'd.
Say, Delia, say, could you for me forgo
Of wealth the pleasure, and the pomp of show
These willingly resign, content to prove

( " Viens! une flute. " )

Come, O come! an unseen flute
'Mid the orchard-bowers is sighing! —
Ah! the song that makes most mute
Is the shepherd-song soft-dying.

Breezes, 'neath the elm vine-clad
Gently fret the river-shadows. —
Ah! the song that makes most glad
Is the bird-song from the meadows.

Be no care in thy bright breast.
Let us love! Ay, love for ever! —