The Home Book of Verse - LightNovelsOnl.com
You're reading novel online at LightNovelsOnl.com. Please use the follow button to get notifications about your favorite novels and its latest chapters so you can come back anytime and won't miss anything.
THE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE
Beneath an Indian palm a girl Of other blood reposes, Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, Amid that wild of roses.
Beside a northern pine a boy Is leaning fancy-bound, Nor listens where with noisy joy Awaits the impatient hound.
Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,-- Relaxed the frosty twine,-- The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, The palm-tree of the pine.
As soon shall nature interlace Those dimly-visioned boughs, As these young lovers face to face Renew their early vows!
Richard Monckton Milnes [1809-1885]
"O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING SOUTH"
From "The Princess"
O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee.
O, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.
O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.
O, were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died!
Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?
O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made.
O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.
O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
THE FLOWER'S NAME
Here's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.
Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.
Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she pa.s.sed you by!
She loves you, n.o.ble roses, I know; But yonder see where the rock-plants lie!
This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name: What a name! Was it love or praise?
Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase: But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like suns.h.i.+ne over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found.
Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved forever!
Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle-- Is not the dear mark still to be seen?
Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me?
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!
--Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces,-- Roses, you are not so fair after all!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
TO MARGUERITE
Yes: in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the sh.o.r.eless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Across the sounds and channels pour;
O then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent!
For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent.
Now round us spreads the watery plain-- O might our marges meet again!
Who ordered that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?
Who renders vain their deep desire?-- A G.o.d, a G.o.d their severance ruled; And bade betwixt their sh.o.r.es to be The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]
SEPARATION
Stop!--not to me, at this bitter departing, Speak of the sure consolations of time!
Fresh be the wound, still-renewed be its smarting, So but thy image endure in its prime.
But, if the steadfast commandment of Nature Wills that remembrance should always decay-- If the loved form and the deep-cherished feature Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away--
Me let no half-effaced memories c.u.mber!
Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee!
Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber-- Dead be the past and its phantoms to me!
