"AWAKE, MY HEART"

Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break, It leaps in the sky: unrisen l.u.s.tres slake The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee: Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

And if thou tarry from her,--if this could be,-- She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamed herself forsake: Awake, to be loved, my heart, awake, awake!

Awake! The land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree; And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

Lo, all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me.

Come, more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, And awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!"

Robert Bridges [1844-1930]

THE SECRET

Nightingales warble about it All night under blossom and star; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle crieth afar; The sun, he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it-- O more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean The infinite yearneth alone; The forests with wandering emotion The thing they know not intone; Creation arose but to see it, A million lamps in the blue; But a lover, he shall be it, If one sweet maid is true.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]

THE ROSE OF STARS

When Love, our great Immortal, Put on mortality, And down from Eden's portal Brought this sweet life to be, At the sublime archangel He laughed with veiled eyes, For he bore within his bosom The seed of Paradise.

He hid it in his bosom, And there such warmth it found, It brake in bud and blossom And the rose fell on the ground; As the green light on the prairie, As the red light on the sea, Through fragrant belts of summer Came this sweet life to be.

And the grave archangel seeing, Spread his mighty wings for flight, But the glow hung round him fleeing Like the rose of an Arctic night; And sadly moving heavenward By Venus and by Mars, He heard the joyful planets Hail Earth, the Rose of Stars.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]

SONG OF EROS From "Agathon"

When love in the faint heart trembles, And the eyes with tears are wet, O, tell me what resembles Thee, young Regret?

Violets with dewdrops drooping, Lilies o'erfull of gold, Roses in June rains stooping, That weep for the cold, Are like thee, young Regret.

Bloom, violets, lilies, and roses!

But what, young Desire, Like thee, when love discloses Thy heart of fire?

The wild swan unreturning, The eagle alone with the sun, The long-winged storm-gulls burning Seaward when day is done, Are like thee, young Desire.

George Edward Woodberry [1855-1930]

LOVE IS STRONG

A viewless thing is the wind, But its strength is mightier far Than a phalanxed host in battle line, Than the limbs of a Samson are.

And a viewless thing is Love, And a name that vanisheth; But her strength is the wind's wild strength above, For she conquers shame and Death.

Richard Burton [1861-

"LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN"

Love once was like an April dawn: Song throbbed within the heart by rote, And every tint of rose or fawn Was greeted by a joyous note.

How eager was my thought to see Into that morning mystery!

Love now is like an August noon, No spot is empty of its shine; The sun makes silence seem a boon, And not a voice so dumb as mine.

Yet with what words I'd welcome thee-- Couldst thou return, dear mystery!

Robert Underwood Johnson [1853-

THE GARDEN OF SHADOW

Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose.

O bright, bright hair! O mouth like a ripe fruit!

Can famine be so nigh to harvesting?

Love, that was songful, with a broken lute In gra.s.s of graveyards goeth murmuring.

Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers, And all thy garden change and glow with spring: Love is grown blind with no more count of hours Nor part in seed-time nor in harvesting.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

THE CALL