That sunny hair is dim, lad, They said was like a crown-- The red gold turned to gray, lad, The night a ship went down.

If you be yet May Margaret, May Margaret now as then, Then where's that bonny smile of yours That broke the hearts of men?

The bonny smile is wan, lad, That once was glad as day-- And oh! 'tis weary smiling To keep the tears away.

If you be that May Margaret, As yet you swear to me, Then where's that proud, cold heart of yours That sent your love to sea?

Ah, me! that heart is broken, The proud, cold heart has bled For one light word outspoken, For all the love unsaid.

Then Margaret, my Margaret, If all you say be true, Your hair is yet the sunniest gold, Your eyes the sweetest blue.

And dearer yet and fairer yet For all the coming years-- The fairer for the waiting, The dearer for the tears!

Theophile Marzials [1850-

RONDEL

Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet, Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; What pain could get between my face and hers?

What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?

Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, Kissing her hair.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

A SPRING JOURNEY

We journeyed through broad woodland ways, My Love and I.

The maples set the shining fields ablaze.

The blue May sky Brought to us its great Spring surprise; While we saw all things through each other's eyes.

And sometimes from a steep hillside Shone fair and bright The shadhush, like a young June bride, Fresh clothed in white.

Sometimes came glimpses glad of the blue sea; But I smiled only on my Love; he smiled on me.

The violets made a field one ma.s.s of blue-- Even bluer than the sky; The little brook took on that color too, And sang more merrily.

"Your dress is blue," he laughing said. "Your eyes,"

My heart sang, "sweeter than the bending skies."

We spoke of poets dead so long ago, And their wise words; We glanced at apple-trees, like drifted snow; We watched the nesting birds,-- Only a moment! Ah, how short the day!

Yet all the winters cannot blow its sweetness quite away.

Alice Freeman Palmer [1855-1902]

THE BROOKSIDE

I wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow,-- The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of gra.s.shopper, No chirp of any bird, But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree; I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid; For I listened, for a footfall, I listened for a word,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,--no, he came not,-- The night came on alone,-- The little stars sat, one by one, Each on his golden throne; The evening wind pa.s.sed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder,-- I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer,--nearer,-- We did not speak one word, For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

Richard Monckton Milnes [1809-1885]

SONG

For me the jasmine buds unfold And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus h.o.a.rds the sunset gold, And the wild rose breathes for me.

I feel the sap through the bough returning, I share the skylark's transport fine, I know the fountain's wayward yearning; I love, and the world is mine!

I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved, Still well remembered, grieve not me; From all that darkened and deceived Upsoars my spirit free.

For soft the hours repeat one story, Sings the sea one strain divine, My clouds arise all flushed with glory; I love, and the world is mine!

Florence Earle Coates [1850-1927]

WHAT MY LOVER SAID

By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom, In the orchard path he met me; In the tall, wet gra.s.s, with its faint perfume, And I tried to pa.s.s, but he made no room, Oh, I tried, but he would not let me.

So I stood and blushed till the gra.s.s grew red, With my face bent down above it, While he took my hand as he whispering said-- (How the clover lifted each pink, sweet head, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it!)

In the high, wet gra.s.s went the path to hide, And the low, wet leaves hung over; But I could not pa.s.s upon either side, For I found myself, when I vainly tried, In the arms of my steadfast lover.

And he held me there and he raised my head, While he closed the path before me, And he looked down into my eyes and said-- (How the leaves bent down from the boughs o'erhead To listen to all that my lover said, Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me!)

Had he moved aside but a little way, I could surely then have pa.s.sed him; And he knew I never could wish to stay, And would not have heard what he had to say, Could I only aside have cast him.

It was almost dark, and the moments sped, And the searching night wind found us, But he drew me nearer and softly said-- (How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the whispering wind around us!)

I am sure he knew when he held me fast, That I must be all unwilling; For I tried to go, and I would have pa.s.sed, As the night was come with its dew, at last, And the sky with its stars was filling.

But he clasped me close when I would have fled, And he made me hear his story, And his soul came out from his lips and said-- (How the stars crept out where the white moon led, To listen to all that my lover said; Oh, the moon and the stars in glory!)

I know that the gra.s.s and the leaves will not tell, And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secret so safely and well That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell From the soul-speaking lips of my lover; And the moon and the stars that looked over Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell They wove round about us that night in the dell, In the path through the dew-laden clover, Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell As they fell from the lips of my lover.

Homer Greene [1853-

MAY-MUSIC