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Tennyson

THE INDIAN SERENADE

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream
And the champak's odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine

O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast;
O! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Died 1894
Edgar Allan Poe, Died 1849

October the Seventh

GREEN GROW THE RASHES O!

Green grow the rashes O,

Green grow the rashes O;

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses O.

There's naught but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes O;
What signifies the life o' man,

An' 't were na for the lasses O?

The war'ly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them O;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them O.

Gie me a canny hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie O,
An' war'ly cares an' war'ly men
May a' gae tapsalteerie O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;
Ye're naught but senseless asses O!
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw
He dearly lo'ed the lasses O.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes 0:

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses O.

Robert Burns

CUPID SWALLOWED

T'other day, as I was twining
Roses for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, - Love himself!
By the wings I pinched him up
Like a bee, and in a cup

Of my wine I plunged and sank him;

And what d'ye think I did?

him!

I drank

Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

Leigh Hunt

KISSING HER HAIR

Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet:

Wove and unwove it, wound, and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound, and found her fair, Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, -
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea:

What pain could get between my face and hers?
What new sweet thing would Love not relish worse?
Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me there,

Kissing her hair.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

ADVICE TO A GIRL

Never love unless you can
Bear with all the faults of man!
Men sometimes will jealous be
Though but little cause they see,
And hang the head as discontent,
And speak what straight they will repent.

Men, that but one Saint adore,
Make a show of love to more;
Beauty must be scorn'd in none,
Though but truly served in one :
For what is courtship but disguise?
True hearts may have dissembling eyes.

Men, when their affairs require,
Must awhile themselves retire;
Sometimes hunt, and sometimes hawk,
And not ever sit and talk:

If these and such-like you can bear,

Then like, and love, and never fear!

Thomas Campion

ABSENCE

When I think on the happy days
I spent wi' you, my dearie;
And now what lands between us lie,
How can I be but eerie !

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,
As ye were wae and weary!

It was na sae ye glinted by
When I was wi' my dearie.

Anon

LULLABY

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Alfred Tennyson

"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK”

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill!

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

Alfred Tennyson

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