The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 41

NANNY

Oh, for an hour when the day is breaking, Down by the sh.o.r.e where the tide is making, Fair as white cloud, thou, love, near me, None but the waves and thyself to hear me!

Oh, to my breast how these arms would press thee!

Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee!

Oh, how the soul thou has won would woo thee, Girl of the snow neck, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour as the day advances, Out where the breeze on the broom-bush dances, Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o'er us, Winging the notes of his Heaven-taught chorus!

Oh, to be there, and my love before me, Soft as a moonbeam smiling o'er me!

Thou would'st but love, and I would woo thee, Girl of the dark eye, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour where the sun first found us, Out in the eve with its red sheets round us, Brushing the dew from the gale's soft winglets, Pearly and sweet, with thy long dark ringlets!

Oh, to be there on the sward beside thee, Telling my tale, though I know you'd chide me!

Sweet were thy voice, though it should undo me,-- Girl of the dark locks, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour by night or by day, love, Just as the Heavens and thou might say, love!

Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many, Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny!

Oh, for the pure chains that have bound me, Warm from thy red lips circling round me!

Oh, in my soul, as the light above me, Queen of the pure hearts, do I love thee!

Francis Davis [1810-1885]

A TRIFLE

I know not why, but even to me My songs seem sweet when read to thee.

Perhaps in this the pleasure lies-- I read my thoughts within thine eyes,

And so dare fancy that my art May sink as deeply as thy heart.

Perhaps I love to make my words Sing round thee like so many birds,

Or, maybe, they are only sweet As they seem offerings at thy feet.

Or haply, Lily, when I speak, I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,

Or with a yet more precious bliss, Die on thy red lips in a kiss.

Each reason here---I cannot tell-- Or all perhaps may solve the spell.

But if she watch when I am by, Lily may deeper see than I.

Henry Timrod [1829-1867]

ROMANCE

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me, Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

"OR EVER THE KNIGHTLY YEARS WERE GONE"

Or ever the knightly years were gone With the old world to the grave, I was a King in Babylon And you were a Christian Slave.

I saw, I took, I cast you by, I bent and broke your pride.

You loved me well, or I heard them lie, But your longing was denied.

Surely I knew that by and by You cursed your G.o.ds and died.

And a myriad suns have set and shone Since then upon the grave Decreed by the King in Babylon To her that had been his Slave.

The pride I trampled is now my scathe, For it tramples me again.

The old resentment lasts like death, For you love, yet you refrain.

I break my heart on your hard unfaith, And I break my heart in vain.

Yet not for an hour do I wish undone The deed beyond the grave, When I was a King in Babylon And you were a Virgin Slave.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

RUS IN URBE

Poets are singing the whole world over Of May in melody, joys for June; Dusting their feet in the careless clover, And filling their hearts with the blackbird's tune.

The "brown bright nightingale" strikes with pity The Sensitive heart of a count or clown; But where is the song for our leafy city, And where the rhymes for our lovely town?

"O for the Thames, and its rippling reaches, Where almond rushes, and breezes sport!

Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches, Give me dinner at Hampton Court!

Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden; We've flowers by day and have scents at dark, The limes are in leaf in the c.o.c.kney garden, And lilacs blossom in Regent's Park.

"Come for a blow," says a reckless fellow, Burned red and brown by pa.s.sionate sun; "Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellow; The season of kisses has just begun!

Come to the fields where bluebells shiver, Hear cuckoo's carol, or plaint of dove; Come for a row on the silent river; Come to the meadows and learn to love!"