Volume Ii Part 39 (1/2)

Forth, ballad, and take roses in both arms, Even till the top rose touch thee in the throat Where the least thornp.r.i.c.k harms; And girdled in thy golden singing-coat, Come thou before my lady and say this: Borgia, thy gold hair's color burns in me, Thy mouth makes beat my blood in feverish rhymes; Therefore so many as these roses be, Kiss me so many times.

Then it may be, seeing how sweet she is, That she will stoop herself none otherwise Than a blown vine-branch doth, And kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes, Ballad, and on thy mouth.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

A LEAVE-TAKING

Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.

Let us go hence together without fear; Keep silence now, for singing time is over, And over all old things and all things dear.

She loves not you nor me as all we love her.

Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear.

Let us rise up and part; she will not know.

Let us go seaward as the great winds go, Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there?

There is no help, for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear, And how these things are, though ye strove to show, She would not know.

Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.

We gave love many dreams and days to keep, Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, Saying, ”If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.”

All is reaped now; no gra.s.s is left to mow; And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, She would not weep.

Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.

She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, Nor see love's ways how sore they are and steep.

Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.

Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep; And though she saw all heaven in flower above, She would not love.

Let us give up, go down; she will not care.

Though all the stars made gold of all the air, And the sea moving saw before it move One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair; Though all those waves went over us, and drove Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair, She would not care.

Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.

Sing all once more together; surely she, She too, remembering days and words that were, Will turn a little towards us, sighing; but we, We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.

Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me, She would not see.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

A LYRIC

There's nae lark loves the lift, my dear, There's nae s.h.i.+p loves the sea, There's nae bee loves the heather-bells, That loves as I love thee, my love, That loves as I love thee.

The whin s.h.i.+nes fair upon the fell, The blithe broom on the lea: The muirside wind is merry at heart: It's a' for love of thee, my love, It's a' for love of thee.