TO HEAR HER SING

To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays.

It is to hear the robin trill At morning, or the whippoorwill At dusk, when stars are blossoming To hear her sing--to hear her sing!

To hear her sing--it is to hear The laugh of childhood ringing clear In woody path or gra.s.sy lane Our feet may never fare again.

Faint, far away as Memory dwells, It is to hear the village bells At twilight, as the truant hears Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

Such joy it is to hear her sing, We fall in love with everything-- The simple things of every day Grow lovelier than words can say.

The idle brooks that purl across The gleaming pebbles and the moss, We love no less than cla.s.sic streams-- The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.

To hear her sing--with folded eyes, It is, beneath Venetian skies, To hear the gondoliers' refrain, Or troubadours of sunny Spain.--

To hear the bulbul's voice that shook The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: What wonder we in homage bring Our hearts to her--to hear her sing!

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A VARIATION

I am tired of this!

Nothing else but loving!

Nothing else but kiss and kiss, Coo, and turtle-doving!

Can't you change the order some?

Hate me just a little--come!

Lay aside your "dears,"

"Darlings", "kings" and "princes!"-- Call me knave, and dry your tears-- Nothing in me winces,-- Call me something low and base-- Something that will suit the case!

Wish I had your eyes And their drooping lashes!

I would dry their teary lies Up with lightning-flashes-- Make your sobbing lips unsheathe All the glitter of your teeth!

Can't you lift one word-- With some pang of laughter-- Louder than the drowsy bird Crooning 'neath the rafter?

Just one bitter word, to shriek Madly at me as I speak!

How I hate the fair Beauty of your forehead!

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How I hate your fragrant hair!

How I hate the torrid Touches of your splendid lips, And the kiss that drips and drips!

Ah, you pale at last!

And your face is lifted Like a white sail to the blast, And your hands are shifted Into fists: and, towering thus, You are simply glorious!

Now before me looms Something more than human; Something more than beauty blooms In the wrath of Woman-- Something to bow down before Reverently and adore.

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WHERE SHALL WE LAND?

"Where shall we land you, sweet?"--Swinburne.

All listlessly we float Out seaward in the boat That beareth Love.

Our sails of purest snow Bend to the blue below And to the blue above.

Where shall be land?

We drift upon a tide Sh.o.r.eless on every side, Save where the eye Of Fancy sweeps far lands Shelved slopingly with sands Of gold and porphyry.

Where shall we land?

The fairy isles we see, Loom up so mistily-- So vaguely fair, We do not care to break Fresh bubbles in our wake To bend our course for there.

Where shall we land?

The warm winds of the deep Have lulled our sails to sleep, And so we glide Careless of wave or wind, Or change of any kind, Or turn of any tide.

Where shall we land?

We droop our dreamy eyes Where our reflection lies Steeped in the sea, And, in an endless fit Of languor, smile on it And its sweet mimicry.

Where shall we land?

"Where shall we land?" G.o.d's grace!

I know not any place So fair as this-- Swung here between the blue Of sea and sky, with you To ask me, with a kiss, "Where shall we land?"

THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS

The touches of her hands are like the fall Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall; The flossy fondling of the thistle-wisp Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, The touches of her hands, and the delight-- The touches of her hands!

The touches of her hands are like the dew That falls so softly down no one e'er knew The touch thereof save lovers like to one Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands, As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands; Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs; Or--in between the midnight and the dawn, When long unrest and tears and fears are gone-- Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.

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