APLESS doom of woman happy in betrothing! in loathing: Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken ; Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken; Low, my lute! Oh, low my lute! we fade and are forsaken Low, dear lute, low! ALFRED TENNYSON. BEFORE PARTING. MONTH or twain to live on honeycomb And that strong purple under juice and foam Where the wine's heart has burst; Nor feel the latter kisses like the first. Once yet, this poor one time, I will not pray The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay, And yet who knows what end the scythèd wheat As none has care of a divided love. I know each shadow of your lips by rote, With tender blood, and colour of your throat; Love's likeness there endures upon all these, Day hath not strength, nor the night shade enough Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. I know not how this last month leaves your hair Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care: ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. XIII. PARTING AT MORNING. OUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain's rim: And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me. ROBERT BROWNING. A FAREWELL. ITH all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away. But, O my Best, When the one darling of our widowhood, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, |