Part 3 (1/2)

Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The gra.s.s grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:-- Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, ”We meet no angels now;”

And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honour:-- What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes Down-dropped brown eyes so tender!

Then what said I?--Gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:-- But,--meet no angels, Pansie?

_MARIT._

1869-70.

_C'est un songe que d'y penser._

My love, on a fair May morning, Would weave a garland of May: The dew hung frore, as her foot tripped o'er The gra.s.s at dawn of the day; On leaf and stalk, in each green wood-walk, Till the sun should charm it away.

Green as a leaf her kirtle, Her bodice red as a rose: Her white bare feet went softly and sweet By roots where the violet grows; Where speedwells azure as heaven, Their sleepy eyes half close.

O'er arms as fair as the lilies No sleeve my love drew on: She found a bower of the wildrose flower, And for her breast culled one: And I laugh and know her b.r.e.a.s.t.s will grow Or ever a year be gone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Full-page Plate]

O sweet dream, wrought of a dear fore-thought, Of a golden time to fall!

She seemed to sing, in her wandering, Till doves in the elm-tops tall Grew mute to hear; as her song rang clear How love is the lord of all.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

ALFRED AUSTIN.

1835.

_A NIGHT IN JUNE._

Lady! in this night of June, Fair like thee and holy, Art thou gazing at the moon That is rising slowly?

I am gazing on her now: Something tells me, so art thou.

Night hath been when thou and I Side by side were sitting, Watching o'er the moonlit sky Fleecy cloudlets flitting.

Close our hands were linked then; When will they be linked again?

What to me the starlight still, Or the moonbeams' splendour, If I do not feel the thrill Of thy fingers slender?

Summer nights in vain are clear, If thy footstep be not near.

Roses slumbering in their sheaths O'er my threshold clamber, And the honeysuckle wreathes Its translucent amber Round the gables of my home: How is it thou dost not come?

If thou camest, rose on rose From its sleep would waken; From each flower and leaf that blows Spices would be shaken; Floating down from star and tree, Dreamy perfumes welcome thee.