Lost Love So humbly they woo, What can poor maidens do 829 But keep them alive when they swear they must die? Ah! who can forbear, As they weep in despair, Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry? Yet, wedded at last, When the honeymoon's past, The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain; And we ne'er can expect They will tell us the old story over again. James Kenney [1780-1849] FRIEND AND LOVER WHEN Psyche's friend becomes her lover, Her lover has become her friend! Mary Ainge de Vere [1844 LOST LOVE WHO wins his Love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain, He loses her who gains her, Oh, happier he who gains not The loveliness that wanes not, The Love that ne'er can wane. In dreams she grows not older In dreams doth he behold her Andrew Lang [1844 AN INTERLUDE IN the greenest growth of the Maytime, The spring was glad that we met. There was something the season wanted, Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet, The breath at your lips that panted, The pulse of the grass at your feet. You came, and the sun came after, And the green grew golden above; Your feet in the full-grown grasses Moved soft as a weak wind blows: You passed me as April passes, With face made out of a rose. By the stream where the stems were slender, Your bright foot paused at the sedge: It might be to watch the tender Light leaves in the springtime hedge, On boughs that the sweet month blanches It might be a bird in the branches, It might be a thorn in the way. An Interlude I waited to watch you linger With foot drawn back from the dew, Till a sunbeam straight like a finger Struck sharp through the leaves at you. And a bird overhead sang "Follow," I saw where the sun's hand pointed, As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember I remember the way we parted, And May with her world in flower A hand like a white wood-blossom And the best and the worst of this is If you've forgotten my kisses, And I've forgotten your name. 831 Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] HEBE I SAW the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet, That bowed my heart like barley bending. As, in bare fields, the searching bees Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates; I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp The beaker fell; the luck was over. The Earth has drunk the vintage up; Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's? O spendthrift haste! await the Gods; Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience; Haste scatters on unthankful sods The immortal gift in vain libations. Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor. James Russell Lowell [1819-1891] Justine, You Love Me Not!" 833 "JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT!" "Helas! vous ne m'aimez pas.”-PIRON I KNOW, Justine, you speak me fair As often as we meet; And 'tis a luxury, I swear, To hear a voice so sweet; And yet it does not please me quite, I know Justine, you never scold "Tis all the same to you. "A charming temper," say the men, I wish 'twere ruffled now and then- I know, Justine, you wear a smile Though azure skies are fair to see, In yours would promise more to me— I know, Justine, you make my name And say-if any chance to blame You hold me in esteem. Such words, for all their kindly scope, Delight me not a jot; Just as you would have praised the Pope Justine, you love me not! |