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Marjorie L. C. Pickthall [1883-1922]
SONG
She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.
Richard Le Gallienne [1866-
THE LOVER THINKS OF HIS LADY IN THE NORTH
Now many are the stately s.h.i.+ps that northward steam away, And gray sails northward blow black hulls, and many more are they; And myriads of viking gulls flap to the northern seas: But Oh my thoughts that go to you are more than all of these!
The winds blow to the northward like a million eager wings, The driven sea a million white-capped waves to northward flings: I send you thoughts more many than the waves that fleck the sea, More eager than tempestuous winds, O Love long leagues from me!
O Love, long leagues from me, I would I trod the drenched deck Of some s.h.i.+p speeding to the North and staunch against all wreck, I would I were a sea-gull strong of wing and void of fear: Unfaltering and fleet I'd fly the long way to my Dear!
O if I were the sea, upon your northern land I'd beat Until my waves flowed over all, and kissed your wandering feet; And if I were the winds, I'd waft you perfumes from the South, And give my pleadings to your ears, my kisses to your mouth.
Though many s.h.i.+ps are sailing, never one will carry me, I may not hurry northward with the gulls, the winds, the sea; But fervid thoughts they say can flash across long leagues of blue-- Ah, so my love and longing must be known, Dear Heart, to you!
Shaemas O Sheel [1886-
CHANSON DE ROSEMONDE
The dawn is lonely for the sun, And chill and drear; The one lone star is pale and wan As one in fear.
But when day strides across the hills, The warm blood rushes through The bared soft bosom of the blue And all the glad east thrills.
Oh, come, my king! The hounds of joy Are waiting for thy horn To chase the doe of heart's desire Across the heights of morn.
Oh, come, my Sun, and let me know The rapture of the day!
Oh, come, my love! Oh, come, my love!
Thou art so long away!
Richard Hovey [1864-1900]
AD DOMNULAM SUAM
Little lady of my heart!
Just a little longer, Love me: we will pa.s.s and part, Ere this love grow stronger.
I have loved thee, Child! too well, To do aught but leave thee: Nay! my lips should never tell Any tale to grieve thee.
Little lady of my heart!
Just a little longer I may love thee: we will part Ere my love grow stronger.
Soon thou leavest fairy-land; Darker grow thy tresses: Soon no more of hand in hand; Soon no more caresses!
Little lady of my heart!
Just a little longer Be a child; then we will part, Ere this love grow stronger.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
MARIAN DRURY
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the sea!
Acadie dreams of your coming home All year through, and her heart gets free,--
Free on the trail of the wind to travel, Search and course with the roving tide, All year long where his hands unravel Blossom and berry the marshes hide.
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the surge!
April over the Norland now Walks in the quiet from verge to verge.
Burying, br.i.m.m.i.n.g, the building billows Fret the long dikes with uneasy foam.
Drenched with gold weather, the idling willows Kiss you a hand from the Norland home.
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the sun!
Blomidon waits for your coming home, All day long where the white wings run.
All spring through they falter and follow, Wander, and beckon the roving tide, Wheel and float with the veering swallow, Lift you a voice from the blue hillside.
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes full of the rain!
April over the Norland now Bugles for rapture, and rouses pain,--
Halts before the forsaken dwelling, Where in the twilight, too spent to roam, Love, whom the fingers of death are quelling, Cries you a cheer from the Norland home.
Marian Drury, Marian Drury, How are the marshes filled with you!
Grand Pre dreams of your coming home,-- Dreams while the rainbirds all night through,
Far in the uplands calling to win you, Tease the brown dusk on the marshes wide; And never the burning heart within you Stirs in your sleep by the roving tide.
Bliss Carman [1861-1929]
