LOVE LETTERS My letters! all dead paper, mute and white! Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, he wished to have me in his sight THE SONNET Scorn not the sonnet; critic, you have frowned, It cheered mild Spenser, called from fairy-land William Wordsworth THE FLIGHT OF LOVE When the lamp is shatter'd Sweet tones are remember'd not; As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, To endure what it once possesst. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions 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 Shelley SONG How many times do I love thee, dear? Of a new-fall'n year Whose white and sable hours appear How many times do I love again? Of evening rain, Unravell'd from the tumbling main,, And threading the eye of a yellow star: So many times do I love again. Thomas Lovell Beddoes THAT HOLY THING They all were looking for a king That made a woman cry. O Son of Man, to right my lot My how or when Thou wilt not heed, But come down Thine own secret stair, That Thou mayst answer all my need Yea, every bygone prayer. George MacDonald AT BETHLEHEM Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight Gloomy night embraced the place Where the noble Infant lay: The Babe look'd up, and show'd His face; It was Thy day, Sweet! and did rise We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal Day; We saw Thine eyes break from their East, Welcome, all wonders in one sight! Summer in Winter! Day in Night! Heaven in Earth! and God in man! Great Little One, Whose all-embracing birth, Lifts Earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to Earth. Richard Crashaw THE ASPIRATION How long, great God, how long must I Where at the grates and avenues of sense, How cold this clime! And yet my sense It turns, and points again to Thee. I long to see this excellence Which at such distance strikes my sense. My impatient soul struggles to disengage Her wings from the confinement of her cage. Wouldst thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free, She'd for no angels' conduct stay, John Norris |