 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
LOVE.
Love might not picture, if it would,
A face as beautiful as good,
So shyly proud, so proudly shy,
As if her footsteps longed to fly
Back to the heaven that gave her birth,
But linger on the enchanted earth.
A face as beautiful as good,
So shyly proud, so proudly shy,
As if her footsteps longed to fly
Back to the heaven that gave her birth,
But linger on the enchanted earth.
Love would not picture, if it might,
The shadow mingled with the light,
As from some blessed region borne,
Where it is ever eve and morn,—
Where sunrise blends with sunset fires,
And all delights with all desires.
The shadow mingled with the light,
As from some blessed region borne,
Where it is ever eve and morn,—
Where sunrise blends with sunset fires,
And all delights with all desires.
Love could not picture, though it tries,
A charm which every test defies,—
That fixed and yet that fleeting grace,
Which has no settled name or place,
A moment here, a moment there,
And still bewitching everywhere.
A charm which every test defies,—
That fixed and yet that fleeting grace,
Which has no settled name or place,
A moment here, a moment there,
And still bewitching everywhere.
Love only knows that she is fair,
With human eyes and crownèd hair,
And all about her glory lies
Of summer nights and southern skies;
And in her form is splendour strange,
Of perfect rest with perfect change.
With human eyes and crownèd hair,
And all about her glory lies
Of summer nights and southern skies;
And in her form is splendour strange,
Of perfect rest with perfect change.
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Love craves not for the answering chord,
It is its own supreme reward;
It sees the head serenely high,
That nothing base could venture nigh,
As if it scorned earth's soiling leaven,
And communed with its kindred heaven.
It is its own supreme reward;
It sees the head serenely high,
That nothing base could venture nigh,
As if it scorned earth's soiling leaven,
And communed with its kindred heaven.
Love sits and to itself it sings,
Of angel ways and angel wings—
The rose that vainly art would seek,
So restless on her radiant cheek—
The glance that falls like starry gleams,
And by itself it sits and dreams.
Of angel ways and angel wings—
The rose that vainly art would seek,
So restless on her radiant cheek—
The glance that falls like starry gleams,
And by itself it sits and dreams.
Love finds a message in the mouth,
Laden with sweetness of the South,
Even in its silence, from the years
Of younger hopes and nobler fears,
And in the vastness of its joy
Feels the old world an empty toy.
Laden with sweetness of the South,
Even in its silence, from the years
Of younger hopes and nobler fears,
And in the vastness of its joy
Feels the old world an empty toy.
Love lingers on her precious gifts,
Each grand surprise that shines and shifts,
The purity of white-waved hands,
Like half-caresses, half-commands—
The dew, the colour, and the glow
Of northern lights on northern snow.
Each grand surprise that shines and shifts,
The purity of white-waved hands,
Like half-caresses, half-commands—
The dew, the colour, and the glow
Of northern lights on northern snow.
Love listens for a step, a sound
Of tinkling feet on pavèd ground,
The shiver of the shaken robe,
That, like the mighty silver globe,
Draw the deep waves of troubled bliss,
To the fair face they cannot kiss.
Of tinkling feet on pavèd ground,
The shiver of the shaken robe,
That, like the mighty silver globe,
Draw the deep waves of troubled bliss,
To the fair face they cannot kiss.
Love fondly takes what fortune brings,
The dainty views, the vanishings,
Like flashes of the unseen storm,—
The poetry of perfect form,
As the lithe body softly sways,
And every passing mood obeys.
The dainty views, the vanishings,
Like flashes of the unseen storm,—
The poetry of perfect form,
As the lithe body softly sways,
And every passing mood obeys.
Love whispers, “She is all my own,
And in my heart she reigns alone,
With magic as of moonlit seas,
And bloom of flowers on laughing leas,
With majesty of motion stayed
In its mid march, like dawn delayed.”
And in my heart she reigns alone,
With magic as of moonlit seas,
And bloom of flowers on laughing leas,
With majesty of motion stayed
In its mid march, like dawn delayed.”
Love was not ever idly spent,
If it may live it is content—
If its own flame may brightly burn,
It asks for little in return:
To hear her voice, to touch her glove,
To look, to tremble, and to love.
If it may live it is content—
If its own flame may brightly burn,
It asks for little in return:
To hear her voice, to touch her glove,
To look, to tremble, and to love.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |