 | Here be blue and white violets from the garden wherein grew meadowsweet |  |
[They gamble in that house, my friend]
“Some rhymster it may be whose bitter pen
Shall pay them their mudstains with interest again.”
Shall pay them their mudstains with interest again.”
They gamble in that house, my friend,
And gamble, too, with lives
So anxious do they seem to turn
Their daughters into wives!
They shuffle with men's hopes and hearts,
And mark the game with tears;
And trifle with the love that soils
Or sanctifies our years.
And gamble, too, with lives
So anxious do they seem to turn
Their daughters into wives!
They shuffle with men's hopes and hearts,
And mark the game with tears;
And trifle with the love that soils
Or sanctifies our years.
The gamblers sit and subtly stake
With false united cares
Sweet Delia, dancing in the hall,
And Daphne, on the stairs:
And if so be that Love is poor
In land and golden sheaves
They play against his poverty,
With long suits up their sleeves.
With false united cares
Sweet Delia, dancing in the hall,
And Daphne, on the stairs:
And if so be that Love is poor
In land and golden sheaves
They play against his poverty,
With long suits up their sleeves.
Ah, friend, when Daphne's lips confessed
Beneath the moonlit may;
And that rare bosom rose and sank,
More eloquent than they,
You took her face between your hands,
And, gazing in her eyes,
Said, Daphne, you are Eve, and all
This garden Paradise.
Beneath the moonlit may;
And that rare bosom rose and sank,
More eloquent than they,
You took her face between your hands,
And, gazing in her eyes,
Said, Daphne, you are Eve, and all
This garden Paradise.
Ah, lovers' songs and lovers' sighs
And lovers' golden lute!
Ah, where's an Eden serpentless,
With unforbidden fruit?
Sir Plutus with his money-bags
Soon jingled her away
Whose beating heart was close to yours
Beneath the moonlit may!
And lovers' golden lute!
Ah, where's an Eden serpentless,
With unforbidden fruit?
Sir Plutus with his money-bags
Soon jingled her away
Whose beating heart was close to yours
Beneath the moonlit may!
Of all the plots that ever thrive
By lying, sword, or dart
Thrice-cursed be those some mothers make
To burst, and break a heart!
Small marvel, friend, that you should write
A truth my spirit shares:—
The while I slept (Ah Love, my Love!)
An enemy sowed tares!
By lying, sword, or dart
Thrice-cursed be those some mothers make
To burst, and break a heart!
Small marvel, friend, that you should write
A truth my spirit shares:—
The while I slept (Ah Love, my Love!)
An enemy sowed tares!
My dog, tho' kennelled for a year,
Had not forgot so soon;
A baby, sobbing for its ball,
Or crying for the moon!
I will not herd with little hearts
That barter smiles for pelf—
God keep me from such narrow ways
A world unto myself!
Had not forgot so soon;
A baby, sobbing for its ball,
Or crying for the moon!
I will not herd with little hearts
That barter smiles for pelf—
God keep me from such narrow ways
A world unto myself!
Could you believe that, as it were,
In ashes and in rags,
These plotters would have had me cheat
Sir Plutus Money-bags?
Sir Plutus with his front of brass
Was yet too fine a clay
To take the shape of hands that broke
My branch of moonlit may!
In ashes and in rags,
These plotters would have had me cheat
Sir Plutus Money-bags?
Sir Plutus with his front of brass
Was yet too fine a clay
To take the shape of hands that broke
My branch of moonlit may!
And so they would have had me hurl
The king from out her heart!
But should I stab him with a blade
Of which I knew the smart?
No! She shall see me in her home
And from her husband's breast,
Where mischief-makers trouble not
And weary, she shall rest!
The king from out her heart!
But should I stab him with a blade
Of which I knew the smart?
No! She shall see me in her home
And from her husband's breast,
Where mischief-makers trouble not
And weary, she shall rest!
They played with tools of sharpest edge,
And when they found them keen
Imagined I would be the knave—
A dirty go-between!
But Daphne, shrinking from their kiss
And honeyed words, was sure
My life would cast out love to keep
A conscience nobly pure.
And when they found them keen
Imagined I would be the knave—
A dirty go-between!
But Daphne, shrinking from their kiss
And honeyed words, was sure
My life would cast out love to keep
A conscience nobly pure.
They gamble in that house, my friend,
And gamble, too, with lives,
So anxious do they seem to turn
Their daughters into wives!
They try to measure hopes and hearts
Like inches, feet, and yards;
And wince not if they chance to find
A blood-stain on the cards!
And gamble, too, with lives,
So anxious do they seem to turn
Their daughters into wives!
They try to measure hopes and hearts
Like inches, feet, and yards;
And wince not if they chance to find
A blood-stain on the cards!
Friends of a June no longer June,
To you it has occurred
To whip a dreamer from his dreams,
And stir his singing-bird.
For red-rose days in dumb years dead
Your payment is a wrong;
So, in his larger charity,
He pays you with a song!
To you it has occurred
To whip a dreamer from his dreams,
And stir his singing-bird.
For red-rose days in dumb years dead
Your payment is a wrong;
So, in his larger charity,
He pays you with a song!
| Here be blue and white violets from the garden wherein grew meadowsweet | |