The Last Memory

When I am old, and think of the old days,
And warm my hands before a little blaze,
Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire,
I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire,
One face, mysterious and exquisite;
And I shall gaze, and ponder over it,
Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought
That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought
Burns inward, a revealing flame, and glows
To the last ecstasy, which is repose?
Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes?
And, musing thus among my memories,
O unforgotten! you will come to seem,

A Consuming Fire

O love, what do they know who only know
Thee as a god of grace and loving-kindness:
Who will adore thee only if thou show
Such gentle light as will not pierce their blindness,
But flee the crucible where thou dost try
Whether of gold or dross our lives are made,
And for the bowers of consolation sigh
When as a man of war thou com'st arrayed?
For light (though love without) within is fire:
Thou art all fire, O Love! and thou in me
Must burn with flames that leap for ever higher
Till there is nothing left in me but thee;

Waltz

Come to me, maiden fair,
Maiden with golden hair,
Now that the vesper air
Trembles no more with prayer!

Come where the Zingaree,
Under the linden tree,
Spurring his comrades three,
Pipes a wild jubilee!

Come, while their tabor's beat
Urges the dancers fleet;
Come, let thy tiny feet
Mine on the meadow meet!

Bounding we gaily start;
Flashes thy blue eyes dart:
Spare thou my captive heart;
Or—let us never part!

Strains gently sighing in the air, love,

The World-Way of the South

Not lost in a languor of blisses,
In valleys sweet-breathing of bloom,
Though roses are fain of her kisses
And stars braid her brows in the gloom;
Though lilies lean to her and love her,
And the love-song is sweet in her mouth,
And the world green—the skies blue above her—
Sing the South! Sing the South! Sing the South!

In the strength of high faith she hath risen,
Her flag on her mountains unfurled;
She hath rent the great hills that imprison
The glittering wealth of a world.
With the thrill of a new life elated

A Song of Faithful Love

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
He 's past full manhood's prime;
He never stole a curl from me,
Or sent me bits of rhyme.
But when he folds me in his arm,
I feel so sweetly safe from harm!

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
No fickle, foolish boy;
And time has written on his face
The lines of pain and joy.
He often looks both tired and sad,
But I—what joy!—can make him glad.

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
His youth has passed him by;
And though I had no part in it,
I cannot breathe one sigh,

Let Love Speak Forth

Let love speak forth in deeds, just as the Spring
Is heralded within the woods in May,
When tulips rear their heads and blithe birds sing
Upon the leafy boughs. No lips could say
What treasured store lies in a tender heart.
Let love be mute! Silence could ne'er conceal
The blossom of the soul, nor speech impart
The inward perfectness love's deeds reveal!

Epigram

C O ming a tender Girl from School,
Marrying, I met a thund'ring Tool:
But fit for Love's Embraces grown,
I've got a Man that's next to none.
The first with Youth's too vig'rous Warmth inspir'd,
With Love's untasted Joys my Weakness tir'd.
My second grunting Spark, cold to Love's Charms,
He fills my Bed, 'tis true, but not my Arms.
When I'd no Appetite, Love cloy'd me;
Now I've a Mind to't, 'tis deny'd me.
Oh! Hymen, Hymen, for my Quiet,
Contract my Stomach, or enlarge my Diet.

Eyes of Beauty

Eyes of beauty, eyes of fire,
Rousing in me mad desire,
Rousing love that cannot tire;

Eyes of beauty, eyes of green,
Sea-sweet colour, seldom seen,
Rippling eyelashes between;

Eyes of beauty, eyes of brown,
Lovely, lowly, looking down,
Conquering wholly whom they crown;

Eyes of beauty, eyes of grey,
Soft as night-time, bright as day,
Born to govern, born to sway;

Eyes of green and brown and grey,
Fairer than noon's sunniest ray,
I love you more than words can say!

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