 | Pomander of Verse |  |
65
MUSK
67
INDISCRETION
Red tulip-buds last night caressed
The sacred ivory of her breast.
She met me, eager to divine
What gold-heart bud of hope was mine.
The sacred ivory of her breast.
She met me, eager to divine
What gold-heart bud of hope was mine.
Nor eyes nor lips were strong to part
The close-curled petals round my heart;
The joy I knew no monarch knows,
Yet not a petal would unclose.
The close-curled petals round my heart;
The joy I knew no monarch knows,
Yet not a petal would unclose.
But, ah!—the tulip-buds, unwise,
Warmed with the sunshine of her eyes,
And by her soft breath glorified,
Went mad with love and opened wide.
Warmed with the sunshine of her eyes,
And by her soft breath glorified,
Went mad with love and opened wide.
She saw their hearts, all golden-gay,
Laughed, frowned, and flung the flowers away.
Poor flowers, in Heaven as you were,
Why did you show your hearts to her?
Laughed, frowned, and flung the flowers away.
Poor flowers, in Heaven as you were,
Why did you show your hearts to her?
68
THE INVITATION
Delia, my dear, delightful Lady,
Time flies in town, you say,
New gowns shine fresh as May,
The Park is glad and gay,
Ah—but the woods are green and shady—
Come, Delia, come away!
Time flies in town, you say,
New gowns shine fresh as May,
The Park is glad and gay,
Ah—but the woods are green and shady—
Come, Delia, come away!
The crown your kneeling slaves award you
Is beauty's royal right;
Your beauty, Delia, might
Win crowns more sweet, more bright:
Your niggard world will not afford you
The crown of Heart's delight.
Is beauty's royal right;
Your beauty, Delia, might
Win crowns more sweet, more bright:
Your niggard world will not afford you
The crown of Heart's delight.
Sable your court will wear—to lose you;
My garden's dressed in green,
Such buds its leaves between
As never yet were seen;
There is no flower it can refuse you—
Come to your King, my Queen!
My garden's dressed in green,
Such buds its leaves between
As never yet were seen;
There is no flower it can refuse you—
Come to your King, my Queen!
69
TO ONE WHO BADE HIM WORK
Each day Work bids my heart anew,
Fold wings and watch my brain at play;
But brain and heart will fly your way,
And find their natural home in you!
Come to me—'tis the only way!
Fold wings and watch my brain at play;
But brain and heart will fly your way,
And find their natural home in you!
Come to me—'tis the only way!
For heart and brain have had to learn
Such carrier-pigeon feats of flight,
That were you here, my heart's delight,
My brain and heart to Work would turn,
Spread wings, and flutter from your sight.
Such carrier-pigeon feats of flight,
That were you here, my heart's delight,
My brain and heart to Work would turn,
Spread wings, and flutter from your sight.
70
THE CLAIM
Oh! I admit I'm dull and poor,
And plain and gloomy, as you tell me;
And dozens flock around your door
Who in all points but one excel me.
And plain and gloomy, as you tell me;
And dozens flock around your door
Who in all points but one excel me.
You smile on them, on me you frown,
They worship for the wage you pay;
I lay life, love, and honour down
For you to walk on every day.
They worship for the wage you pay;
I lay life, love, and honour down
For you to walk on every day.
I am the only one who sees
That though such gifts can never move you,
A meagre price are gifts like these
For life's high privilege—to love you.
That though such gifts can never move you,
A meagre price are gifts like these
For life's high privilege—to love you.
I am the one among your train
Who sees that loving you is worth
A thousand times the certain gain
Of all the heaped-up joys of earth.
Who sees that loving you is worth
A thousand times the certain gain
Of all the heaped-up joys of earth.
71
And you, who know as well as I,
What your glass tells you every morning—
A kindred soul you should descry,
Dilute with sympathy your scorning.
What your glass tells you every morning—
A kindred soul you should descry,
Dilute with sympathy your scorning.
At least you should approve the intense
Love that gives all for you to waste;
Your other lovers have more sense,
Admit that I have better taste.
Love that gives all for you to waste;
Your other lovers have more sense,
Admit that I have better taste.
72
TO HIS LADY
(Who asked a Song in Spring)
Why do you bid your poet sing,
Who has no mind to song—
Who only wants to see the Spring,
Long sought and tarrying long?
The shivering, dreary winter through
My song enshrined my vow;
If then my songs were sweet to you,
Let me be silent now!
Who has no mind to song—
Who only wants to see the Spring,
Long sought and tarrying long?
The shivering, dreary winter through
My song enshrined my vow;
If then my songs were sweet to you,
Let me be silent now!
Have I not duly sung, my dear,
Your goodness and your grace?
Now that your rival, Spring, is here,
O let me see her face!
The hedge is white with buds of May,
The fields are green with Spring,
Oh, give your bard a holiday:
He does not want to sing!
Your goodness and your grace?
Now that your rival, Spring, is here,
O let me see her face!
The hedge is white with buds of May,
The fields are green with Spring,
Oh, give your bard a holiday:
He does not want to sing!
73
He wants to listen; all alone,
He wants to steal away
To hear the ring-doves' tender tone,
And what the thrushes say.
He wants to hear what can't be heard
When you and love are near—
The sweet Spring's soft and secret word;
Oh, let him go, my dear!
He wants to steal away
To hear the ring-doves' tender tone,
And what the thrushes say.
He wants to hear what can't be heard
When you and love are near—
The sweet Spring's soft and secret word;
Oh, let him go, my dear!
74
THE CHARM
Like crimson lamps the tulips swing,
The lily flowers their incense bring,
The daisies votive garlands fling
Before the altar of the Spring.
The lily flowers their incense bring,
The daisies votive garlands fling
Before the altar of the Spring.
And you and I in this green May,
When thrushes sing, and white lambs play,
Go glad at heart—so glad and gay,
No word seems good enough to say.
When thrushes sing, and white lambs play,
Go glad at heart—so glad and gay,
No word seems good enough to say.
Yet there's a charm, it would appear,
Which, if I spoke it in your ear,
Would fix the spring for ever here;
Pass on—I will not speak it, dear.
Which, if I spoke it in your ear,
Would fix the spring for ever here;
Pass on—I will not speak it, dear.
75
DEFERRED
Not now, when skies are gold and blue
And you have me and I have you,
When there are roses all the way,
And April days and nights of May,
And life is joy the whole day long—
Not now can passion flower in song.
And you have me and I have you,
When there are roses all the way,
And April days and nights of May,
And life is joy the whole day long—
Not now can passion flower in song.
But in the dark days by-and-by,
When, deep divided, you and I,
Shivering among the rose-thorns bare,
At last confess what fools we were;
Then, neatly wired, a nosegay fine
Shall deck your heart—O heart of mine!
When, deep divided, you and I,
Shivering among the rose-thorns bare,
At last confess what fools we were;
Then, neatly wired, a nosegay fine
Shall deck your heart—O heart of mine!
76
SPRING SONG
All winter through I sat alone,
Doors barred and windows shuttered fast,
And listened to the wind's faint moan,
And ghostly mutterings of the past;
And in the pauses of the rain,
'Mid whispers of dead sorrow and sin,
Love tapped upon the window pane:
I had no heart to let him in.
Doors barred and windows shuttered fast,
And listened to the wind's faint moan,
And ghostly mutterings of the past;
And in the pauses of the rain,
'Mid whispers of dead sorrow and sin,
Love tapped upon the window pane:
I had no heart to let him in.
But now, with spring, my doors stand wide;
My windows let delight creep through;
I hear the skylark sing outside;
I see the crocus, golden new.
The pigeons on my window-sill,
Winging and wooing, flirt and flout,—
Now Love must enter if he will,
I have no heart to keep him out.
My windows let delight creep through;
I hear the skylark sing outside;
I see the crocus, golden new.
The pigeons on my window-sill,
Winging and wooing, flirt and flout,—
Now Love must enter if he will,
I have no heart to keep him out.
| Pomander of Verse | |