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"THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES"
The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done.
Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]
"I SAW MY LADY WEEP"
I saw my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of Woe, But such a Woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair, And Pa.s.sion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing; Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare: She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!
Enough, enough: your joyful look excels: Tears kill the heart, believe.
O strive not to be excellent in Woe, Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
Unknown
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM
Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Though he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name.
No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste.
'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light that ne'er can s.h.i.+ne again On life's dull stream; Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can s.h.i.+ne again On life's dull stream.
Thomas Moore [1779-1852]
"NOT OURS THE VOWS"
Not ours the vows of such as plight Their troth in sunny weather, While leaves are green, and skies are bright, To walk on flowers together.
But we have loved as those who tread The th.o.r.n.y path of sorrow, With clouds above, and cause to dread Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.
That th.o.r.n.y path, those stormy skies, Have drawn our spirits nearer; And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, Each to the other dearer.
Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, With mirth and joy may perish; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish.
It looks beyond the clouds of time, And through death's shadowy portal; Made by adversity sublime, By faith and hope immortal.
Bernard Barton [1784-1849]
THE GRAVE OF LOVE
I dug, beneath the cypress shade, What well might seem an elfin's grave; And every pledge in earth I laid, That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath; I placed one mossy stone above; And twined the rose's fading wreath Around the sepulcher of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead Ere yet the evening sun was set: But years shall see the cypress spread, Immutable as my regret.
Thomas Love Peac.o.c.k [1785-1866]
"WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING"
So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And Love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]
SONG
Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing That burden treasured in your hearts too long; Sing it, with voice low-breathed, but never name her: She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal song-- Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do not claim her!
In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses, She shades the bloom of her unearthly days; And the soft winds alone have power to woo her: Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses; And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she strays, Intelligible music warbling to her.
That Spirit charged to follow and defend her,-- He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain; And she, perhaps, is sad, hearing his sighing: And yet that face is not so sad as tender; Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest strain From the heaved heart is gradually dying!
