Once more the Knights and ladies pa.s.s In visions Fancy-wove: I lie full length in summer gra.s.s, To choose my own True-Love.

Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!

Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know not how,--I know not where,-- I dream a fairy-spell: I know she is surpa.s.sing fair,-- I know I love her well.

Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!

Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know she is as pure as snow:-- As true as G.o.d's own Truth:-- I know,--I know I love her so, She must love me, in sooth!

Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!

Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know the stars dim to her eyes; The flowers blow in her face: I know the angels in the skies Have given her of their grace.

Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!

Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

And none but I her heart can move, Though seraphs may have striven; And when I find my own True-love, I know I shall find Heaven.

Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!

Oh! where can my Lady be!

I will seek my Love with the wings of a dove And pray her to love but me.

TO CLAUDIA

It is not, Claudia, that thine eyes Are sweeter far to me, Than is the light of Summer skies To captives just set free.

It is not that the setting sun Is tangled in thy hair, And recks not of the course to run, In such a silken snare.

Nor for the music of thy words, Fair Claudia, love I thee, Though sweeter than the songs of birds That melody to me.

It is not that rich roses rare Within thy garden grow, Nor that the fairest lilies are Less snowy than thy brow.

Nay, Claudia, 't is that every grace In thy dear self I find; That Heaven itself is in thy face, And also in thy mind.

THE APPLE-TREES AT EVEN

Ah! long ago it seems to me, Those sweet old days of summer, When I was young and fair was she, And sorrow only rumor.

And all the world was less than naught To me who had her favor; For Time and Care had not then taught How Life of Death hath savor.

And all the day the roving bees Clung to the swinging clover, And robins in the apple-trees Answered the faint-voiced plover.

And all the sounds were low and sweet; The zephyrs left off roaming In curving gambols o'er the wheat, To kiss her in the gloaming.

The apple-blossoms kissed her hair, The daisies prayed her wreathe them; Ah, me! the blossoms still are there, But she lies deep beneath them.

I now have turned my thoughts to G.o.d, Earth from my heart I sever; With fast and prayer I onward plod-- With prayer and fast forever.

Yet, when the white-robed priest speaks low And bids me think of Heaven, I always hear the breezes blow The apple-trees at even.

MY TRUE-LOVE'S WEALTH

My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For she hath wealth of golden hair, Shot through with shafts from Delos' bow, That shines about her shoulders rare, Like sunlight on new driven snow.

My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For she hath eyes so soft and bright, So deep the light that in them lies, That stars in heaven would lose their light Ashine beside my True-love's eyes.

My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For oh! she hath such dainty hands, So snowy white, so fine and small, That had I wealth of Ophir's lands, For one of them I 'd give it all.

My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For oh! she hath a face so fair, Such winsome light about it plays, For worldly wealth I nothing care, So I can look upon her face.

My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For endless wealth of mind hath she, Her heart so stored with precious lore-- Her riches they as countless be As sh.e.l.ls upon the ocean's sh.o.r.e.

My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- The wild-brier bough hath less of grace And on wild violets when she treads They turn to look into her face And scarcely bow their azure heads.

My True-love hath no wealth they say; But when they do, I tell them nay,-- For oh! she hath herself, in fee, And this is more than worlds to me.

A VALENTINE

My patron saint, St. Valentine, Why dost thou leave me to repine, Still supplicating at her shrine?

But bid her eyes to me incline, I 'll ask no other sun to shine, More rich than is Golconda's mine.

Range all that Woman, Song, or Wine Can give; Wealth, Power, and Fame combine; For her I 'd gladly all resign.

Take all the pearls are in the brine, Sift heaven for stars, earth's flowers entwine, But be her heart my Valentine.

A PORTRAIT

A mouth red-ripened like a warm, sweet rose, Wherein are gleaming pearls all pure and bright As dewdrops nestled where the zephyr blows With pinion soft across the humid night; A cheek not ruddy, but soft-tinged and fair, Where whiles the rich patrician blood is seen, As though it knew itself a thing too rare For common gaze, yet did its high demean; A brow serene and pure as her white soul, By which the sifted snow would blackened seem That sleeps untrodden where the Northern pole Rests calm, unscanned save by the Moon's chaste beam; Eyes gray as Summer twilight skies are gray, And deep with light as deep, still waters are,-- Tender as evening's smile when kissing day, Yet bright and true as is her l.u.s.trous star.

These all unite and with accordant grace Make heaven mirrored ever in her face.

FeLICE