 | Dartmouth lyrics by Richard Hovey |  |
75
LALAGE
My love is like the dawning
And I am like the lark
That sings to greet her coming,
When 'neath a rosy awning
In a golden cloud winged bark,
Upon a gittern strumming,
She drives away the dark.
And I am like the lark
That sings to greet her coming,
When 'neath a rosy awning
In a golden cloud winged bark,
Upon a gittern strumming,
She drives away the dark.
To the melody she strummeth
Upon that gittern gay,
When o'er the hills she cometh,
I sing a song of sadness,
Though the tune she plays is merry,
And my sadness and her gladness
Mingle, chording in a very
Dulcet and harmonious way.
Upon that gittern gay,
When o'er the hills she cometh,
I sing a song of sadness,
Though the tune she plays is merry,
And my sadness and her gladness
Mingle, chording in a very
Dulcet and harmonious way.
My love is like the lily
And I am like the rose
And the garden that we grow in
Is odorous and stilly;
And she is white and chilly
But I am red and glowing
As a fire amid the snows.
And I am like the rose
And the garden that we grow in
Is odorous and stilly;
And she is white and chilly
But I am red and glowing
As a fire amid the snows.
Yet her love, so chaste and chilly,
And mine, so warm and glowing,
Blend quietly and stilly,
As the waters of a river
With the waters of the sea;
Ah! with love of her I quiver
And she trembles, loving me,
In the garden that we grow in.
And mine, so warm and glowing,
Blend quietly and stilly,
As the waters of a river
With the waters of the sea;
Ah! with love of her I quiver
And she trembles, loving me,
In the garden that we grow in.
Lalage! Lalage!
Like a snowdrop thou art chilly—
Yet, enfolden in my bosom,
Like a snowdrop meltest thou
In the summer of my kisses.
I am bird and thou art blossom
But we swing upon one bough.
Oh, the love of thee and me,
Pale and virgin lily!
There is nothing sweet as this is,
Lalage!
Like a snowdrop thou art chilly—
76
Like a snowdrop meltest thou
In the summer of my kisses.
I am bird and thou art blossom
But we swing upon one bough.
Oh, the love of thee and me,
Pale and virgin lily!
There is nothing sweet as this is,
Lalage!
But the dawning dawns not ever
And the lark not always sings
And the flowers must sometime wither—
We only meet to sever,
From our joy our sorrow springs
And unhappiness is hither
Borne on pleasure's purple wings.
And the lark not always sings
And the flowers must sometime wither—
We only meet to sever,
From our joy our sorrow springs
And unhappiness is hither
Borne on pleasure's purple wings.
| Dartmouth lyrics by Richard Hovey | |