Through a valley flows a gentle river,
Gently flows, with waters deep and clear;
In a flowery meadow, spreading near,
Silken leaves of slender poplars quiver.
There a quiet maiden singeth ever
Simple melodies of truth and love:
Pure and artless as the snowy dove,
Evil thought hath stained her bosom never.

Lovely, too, as rose but half unfolded;
Modest as that rose, when bent with dew:
Blue her eye, as heaven's own softest hue;
Lip as fresh as living ruby moulded.
Smiles she hath that tell of sunny feeling, —

Love, whose light thrills heaven and earth,
Smiles and weeps upon thy birth,
Child, whose mother's love-lit eyes
Watch thee but from Paradise.
Sweetest sight that earth can give,
Sweetest light of eyes that live,
Ours must needs, for hope withdrawn,
Hail with tears thy soft spring dawn.
Light of hope whose star hath set,
Light of love whose sun lives yet,
Holier, happier, heavenlier love
Breathes about thee, burns above,
Surely, sweet, than ours can be,
Shed from eyes we may not see,
Though thine own may see them shine

Phillida's Love-call to her Coridon and his replying Phil.

Coridon, arise, my Coridon!
Titan shineth clear. Cor.
Who is it that calleth Coridon?
Who is it that I hear? Phil.
Phillida, thy true love, calleth thee.
Arise then, arise then!
Arise and keep thy flock with me! Cor.
Phillida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, I come then,
I come and keep my flock with thee. Phil.

I

Love, loyallest and lordliest born of things,
Immortal that shouldst be, though all else end,
In plighted hearts of fearless friend with friend,
Whose hand may curb or clip thy plume-plucked wings?
Not grief's nor time's: though these be lords and kings
Crowned, and their yoke bid vassal passions bend,
They may not pierce the spirit of sense, or blend
Quick poison with the soul's live watersprings

I

Queen, for whose house my fathers fought,
With hopes that rose and fell,
Red star of boyhood's fiery thought,
Farewell.

They gave their lives, and I, my queen,
Have given you of my life,
Seeing your brave star burn high between
Men's strife.

The strife that lightened round their spears
Long since fell still: so long
Hardly may hope to last in years

Not his first love, nor last, was she who bore
His name now. Yet he would not have her guess
That it was less of love than loneliness
Had brought him tardily suppliant to her door.
Penurious years had taught him to be more
Frugal than once — content with something less
Than the consummate bliss he must confess
He counted now but myth or metaphor.

Yet, lacking love, he gave good counterfeit
In tenderness, forever vigilant lest
Gesture or glance might lead her to surmise
The counterfeit. He envied her a bit

The fairy poet takes a sheet
Of moonbeam, silver white;
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
His pen a point of light.

My love I know is fairer far
Than his, (though she is fair,)
And we should dwell where fairies are —
For I could praise her there.

I

What is love of one's land? ...
I don't know very well.
It is something that sleeps
For a year, for a day,
For a month — something that keeps
Very hidden and quiet and still,
And then takes
The quiet heart like a wave,
The quiet brain like a spell,
The quiet will
Like a tornado; and that shakes
The whole of the soul.

II

It is omnipotent like love;
It is deep and quiet as the grave,

Some tell of Thebes and some relate
Of Phrygian wars the conflicts dire;
But I, who feel no martial fire,
A captive, glory in my fate.

Of fleets victorious am I
No slave; nor yet an army's prize:
My conquerors they are the sly
Foes darting fires from my love's eyes.

Like a child engrossed in play, you sit, young mother, by the cradle, and your mock-serious face looks so childishly charming, childishly charming the face and childlike blue the eyes .
With smile-wreathed lips sleeps the child in the cradle; it is also time for the little lovely mother to retire ... Yet the little, lovely mother with her head nods: nay ...