If she loves the sky so fair,
Fleecy cloud and liquid air.

As she answers, Yes or No,
Darling! take my answer so.

Do I love thee? Ask the flower
If she loves the vernal shower,
Or the kisses of the sun,

Or the dew, when day is done.
As she answers, Yes or No,
Darling! take my answer so.

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]

"O WORLD, BE NOBLER"

O WORLD, be nobler, for her sake!

If she but knew thee what thou art,

What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done

In thee, beneath thy daily sun,

Know'st thou not that her tender heart

For pain and very shame would break?

O World, be nobler, for her sake!

Laurence Binyon [1869

"IN THE DARK, IN THE DEW"

IN the dark, in the dew,

I am smiling back at you;

But you cannot see the smile,

And you're thinking all the while

How I turn my face from you,

In the dark, in the dew.

In the dark, in the dew,
All my love goes out to you,
Flutters like a bird in pain,
Dies and comes to life again;
While you whisper, "Sweetest, hark;
Someone's sighing in the dark,
In the dark, in the dew!"

Nanny

In the dark, in the dew,

All my heart cries out to you,
As I cast it at your feet,

Sweet indeed, but not too sweet;
Wondering will you hear it beat,
Beat for you, and bleed for you,

In the dark, in the dew!

631

Mary Newmarch Prescott [1849-1888]

NANNY

OH, for an hour when the day is breaking,
Down by the shore where the tide is making,
Fair as a white cloud, thou, love, near me,
None but the waves and thyself to hear me!
Oh, to my breast how these arms would press thee!
Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee!

Oh, how the soul thou has won would woo thee,
Girl of the snow neck, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour as the day advances,

Out where the breeze on the broom-bush dances,
Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o'er us,
Winging the notes of his Heaven-taught chorus!
Oh, to be there, and my love before me,
Soft as a moonbeam smiling o'er me!

Thou would'st but love, and I would woo thee,
Girl of the dark eye, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour where the sun first found us,
Out in the eve with its red sheets round us,
Brushing the dew from the gale's soft winglets,
Pearly and sweet, with thy long dark ringlets!
Oh, to be there on the sward beside thee,
Telling my tale, though I know you'd chide me!
Sweet were thy voice, though it should undo me,—
Girl of the dark locks, closer to me!

Oh, for an hour by night or by day, love,

Just as the Heavens and thou might say, love!

Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many,
Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny!
Oh, for the pure chains that have bound me,
Warm from thy red lips circling round me!
Oh, in my soul, as the light above me,
Queen of the pure hearts, do I love thee!

Francis Davis [1810-1885]

A TRIFLE

I KNOW not why, but even to me
My songs seem sweet when read to thee.

Perhaps in this the pleasure lies-
I read my thoughts within thine eyes,

And so dare fancy that my art
May sink as deeply as thy heart.

Perhaps I love to make my words
Sing round thee like so many birds,

Or, maybe, they are only sweet
As they seem offerings at thy feet.

Or haply, Lily, when I speak,

I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,

Or with a yet more precious bliss,
Die on thy red lips in a kiss.

Each reason here I cannot tell-
Or all perhaps may solve the spell.

But if she watch when I am by,
Lily may deeper see than I.

Henry Timrod [1829-1867]

ROMANCE

I WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me,

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

"Or Ever the Knightly Years Were Gone" 633

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,

Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

"OR EVER THE KNIGHTLY YEARS WERE GONE"

OR ever the knightly years were gone

With the old world to the grave,

I was a King in Babylon

And you were a Christian Slave.

I saw, I took, I cast you by,

I bent and broke your pride.

You loved me well, or I heard them lie,
But your longing was denied.

Surely I knew that by and by

You cursed your gods and died.

And a myriad suns have set and shone
Since then upon the grave
Decreed by the King in Babylon

To her that had been his Slave.

The pride I trampled is now my scathe,
For it tramples me again.

The old resentment lasts like death,
For you love, yet you refrain.

I break my heart on your hard unfaith,
And I break my heart in vain.

Yet not for an hour do I wish undone
The deed beyond the grave,

When I was a King in Babylon
And you were a Virgin Slave.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

RUS IN URBE

POETS are singing the whole world over
Of May in melody, joys for June;
Dusting their feet in the careless clover,

And filling their hearts with the blackbird's tune.
The "brown bright nightingale" strikes with pity
The sensitive heart of a count or clown;
But where is the song for our leafy city,

And where the rhymes for our lovely town?

"O for the Thames, and its rippling reaches,
Where almond rushes, and breezes sport!
Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches;

Give me a dinner at Hampton Court!"
Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden;
We've flowers by day and have scents at dark,
The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden,
And lilacs blossom in Regent's Park.

"Come for a blow," says a reckless fellow,
Burned red and brown by passionate sun;
"Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellow;
The season of kisses has just begun!
Come to the fields where bluebells shiver,
Hear cuckoo's carol, or plaint of dove;

Come for a row on the silent river;

Come to the meadows and learn to love!"

Yes, I will come when this wealth is over
Of softened color and perfect tone-
The lilac's better than fields of clover;

I'll come when blossoming May has flown.
When dust and dirt of a trampled city

Have dragged the yellow laburnum down,
I'll take my holiday-more's the pity—
And turn my back upon London town.

Margaret! am I so wrong to love it,

This misty town that your face shines through?

A crown of blossom is waved above it;

But heart and life of the whirl-'tis you!