The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 121

LOVE'S ROSARY

All day I tell my rosary For now my love's away: To-morrow he shall come to me About the break of day; A rosary of twenty hours, And then a rose of May; A rosary of fettered flowers, And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours: And here's a flower of memory, And here's a hope of flowers, And here's an hour that yearns with pain For old forgotten years, An hour of loss, an hour of gain, And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary, Because my love's away; And never a whisper comes to me, And never a word to say; But, if it's parting more endears, G.o.d bring him back, I pray; Or my heart will break in the darkness Before the break of day.

All day I tell my rosary, My rosary of hours, Until an hour shall bring to me The hope of all the flowers...

I tell my rosary of hours, For O, my love's away; And--a dream may bring him back to me About the break of day.

Alfred Noyes [1880-

WHEN SHE COMES HOME

When she comes home again! A thousand ways I fashion, to myself, the tenderness Of my glad welcome: I shall tremble--yes; And touch her, as when first in the old days I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress Then silence: and the perfume of her dress: The room will sway a little, and a haze Cloy eyesight--soul-sight, even--for a s.p.a.ce; And tears--yes; and the ache here in the throat, To know that I so ill deserve the place Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face Again is hidden in the old embrace.

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE

SONG

My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By Love are driven away; And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven When springing buds unfold: O why to him was't given, Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb, Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an ax and spade, Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made, Let winds and tempests beat: Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay: True love doth pa.s.s away!

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE FLIGHT OF LOVE

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead-- When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendor Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute-- No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed.

O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its pa.s.sions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley [1792-1822]

"FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER"

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.

'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word--Farewell!--Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry: But in my breast and in my brain Awake the pangs that pa.s.s not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.

My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and pa.s.sion there rebel: I only know we loved in vain-- I only feel--Farewell!--Farewell!

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

PORPHYRIA'S LOVER

The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me--she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling pa.s.sion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever.

But pa.s.sion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead!