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–

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 veilèd 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;

Love is Strong

And sadly moving heavenward
By Venus and by Mars,
He heard the joyful planets

Hail Earth, the Rose of Stars.
George Edward Woodberry [1855-

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

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.

491

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 [1859

A QUESTION AND AN ANSWER

The Question

What is Love? Is Love in this,

That flies between us, in a kiss?

Nay, what is Love? Is Love the zest,
That wakes, when I unloose my breast?
But what is Love? Say now: who knows,
Or where he lurks, or how he shows?

The Answer

Dearest, Truth is stern, I fear:
Love, as yet, can scarce be here.

Love is poor; nay, Love is sorry;
Tears, not kisses, chiefly stay him:
His sad weeds best tell his story;

Vain delights befool, bewray him.

Truth, alas! is hard to bear:
Know, as yet, Love is not here.

But, when the evil days are come,

If those same lips, which kiss you now,
Still make your tearful eyes their home,
And chide the sorrow from your brow;

Then say to your own heart, my Dear:
Abide, poor heart, for Love is here.

Love is a light, in darkened ways;
Love is a path, in pathless lands;
Love is a fire, in winter days;

A staff, in chill, unsteady hands.

The Garden of Shadow

Speak to your heart, my own, my Dear;
Say: this is Love, and Love is here.
Herbert P. Horne [18

"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 grass 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

LOVE comes laughing up the valleys,
Hand in hand with hoyden Spring;
All the Flower-People nodding,
All the Feathered-Folk a-wing.

"Higher! Higher!" call the thrushes;
"Wilder! Freer!" breathe the trees;
And the purple mountains beckon
Upward to their mysteries.

Always farther leagues to wander,
Peak to peak and slope to slope;
Lips to sing and feet to follow,

Eyes to dream and heart to hope!

Tarry? Nay, but who can tarry?
All the world is on the wing;
Love comes laughing up the valleys,
Hand in hand with hoyden Spring.
Reginald Wright Kauffman [1877-

THE HIGHWAY

ALL day long on the highway

The King's fleet couriers ride;

You may hear the tread of their horses sped

Over the country side.

They ride for life and they ride for death

And they override who tarrieth.

With show of color and flush of pride
They stir the dust on the highway.

Let them ride on the highway wide.
Love walks in little paths aside.

All day long on the highway

Is a tramp of an army's feet;

You may see them go in a marshaled row