CLXII. LOVE-SWEETNESS. WEET dimness of her loosened hair's downfall About thy face; her sweet hands round thy head In gracious fostering union garlanded; Her tremulous smiles; her glances' sweet recall Of love; her murmuring sighs memorial; Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy kisses shed On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so led Back to her mouth which answers there for all;— What sweeter than these things, except the thing In lacking which all these would lose their sweet: The confident heart's still fervour; the swift beat And soft subsidence of the spirit's wing, Then when it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring, The breath of kindred plumes against its feet? DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. THE BRIDESMAID. BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was tied, see; Thy sister smiled and said, "No tears for A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride." 66 Love lighted down between them full of glee, And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thee, "O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride." And all at once a pleasant truth I learn'd, For while the tender service made thee weep, I loved thee for the tear thou couldst not hide, And prest thy hand, and knew the press return'd, And thought, "My life is sick of single sleep; O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride!" ALFRED TENNYSON. SPRING LOVE. ROM morn to evening, this day, yesterday, of love, Till the moon rose the darkening woods above: We've seen the blossoming apple's crimson spray, As if their time was short as it was sweet: Along love's meadow-lands too, with glad feet, We've welcomed all the wild flowers come with May. Bend thy sweet head; I've strung this long woodbine With primroses and cowslips-golden fringe For golden hair, the flowers that best express The opening of the year, the mild sunshine, And the frank clearness of those thoughtless eyes, blessedness. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. WHY. 66 SHY do I love thee?" Thus, in earnest wise, face Of rarest beauty; and for every grace That in thy voice and air and motion lies; I love thee for thy heart so true and warm, Because of these I love thee; yet above JOHN GODFREY SAXE. REMEMBRANCE. O think of thee! it was thy fond request So oft, dear heart! from toil and care I flee, My conscious spirit, like the halo spread JOHN GODFREY SAXE. |