Lyrics of Love ...
As
I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The
crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And
down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under
an arch of the railway:
‘Love has no ending.
‘I’ll
love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And
the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
’I’ll
love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung to dry
And
the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
‘The
years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The
Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.’
But
all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
‘O
let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
‘In
the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time
watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
‘In
headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And
Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
‘Into
many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time
breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.
‘O
plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare,
stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.
‘The
glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And
the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
‘Where
the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And
the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
‘O
look, look in the mirror!
O look in your distress:
Life
remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
‘O
stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You
shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.’
It
was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The
clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
AS LONG AS YOUR EYES ARE BLUE
Andrew Barton Paterson (1864-1941)
Wilt thou love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?
When the charms of youth shall have passed away,
Will your love as of old prove true?
For the looks may change, and the heart may range,
And the love be no longer fond;
Wilt thou love with truth in the years of youth
And away to the years beyond?
Oh, I love you, sweet, for your locks of brown
And the blush on your cheek that lies —
But I love you most for the kindly heart
That I see in your sweet blue eyes.
For the eyes are signs of the soul within,
Of the heart that is leal and true,
And mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.
For the locks may bleach, and the cheeks of peach
May be reft of their golden hue;
But mine own sweetheart, I shall love you still,
Just as long as your eyes are blue.
Leigh
Hunt (1836)
King
Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The
nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And ‘mongst them sat the Count de Lorge,
with one for whom he sighed:
And
truly ‘twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped
and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams,
a wind went with their
paws;
With
wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another;
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The
bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than
there.”
De
Lorge’s love o’erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes,
which always seemed the same;
She
thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King,
ladies, lovers, all look on: the occasion is divine;
I’ll drop my glove, to prove his love, great glory will be mine.
She dropped her glove to prove his love
then looked at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
The
leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face.
“By God!” said Francis, “rightly done!”
and he rose from where he sat:
“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”
HOW
DO I LOVE THEE?
How
do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I
love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My
soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For
the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I
love thee to the level of every day's
Most
quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I
love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I
love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I
love with a passion put to use
In
my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I
love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With
my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles,
tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose,
I
shall but love thee better after death.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
It
was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey
nonino,
That
o’er the green corn-field did pass,
In
the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet
lovers love the spring.
Between
the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey
nonino,
These
pretty country folks would lie,
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet
lovers love the spring.
This
carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey
nonino,
How
that life was but a flower
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet
lovers love the spring.
And,
therefore, take the present time
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey
nonino,
For
love is crown’d and grav’d with the prime
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When
birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet
lovers love the spring.
Emily
Jane Bronte (1818-1848)
Love
is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree --
The
holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The
wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet
wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then
scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That
when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.
A MAID IN LOVE
I am a maid that's deep in love, but yes, I can complain,
I have in this world but one true love, and Jimmy is his name.
And if I do not find my love, I'll mourn most constantly
And I'll find and follow Jimmy through, to the Land of Liberty.
Well, I'll put up my yellow hair, men's clothing I'll wear on,
I'll sign to a bold sea captain, my passage I'll work free.
And I'll find and follow Jimmy through, to the Land of Liberty.
One night upon the raging sea, as we were goin' to bed
The Captain cried, 'Fare well, my boy, I wish you were a maid...
For your rosy cheeks and your ruby lips, they are enticing me,
And I wish, dear God, with all of my heart, a maid you were to me!"
"Then hold your tongue, dear Captain, such talk is all in vain,
And if an' the sailors find you out, they'll laugh and make much game.
For once we reach Columbia shore, some pretty young maids you will find,
And you'll laugh and sing and dance with them, for such courtin' you are inclined."
It was not three days after, our ship it reached the shore.
"Adieu my loving Captain, adieu for ever more,
For once I was a sailor on sea, but now I'm a maid on the shore,
So adieu to you and to all of your crew, for with you I will sail no more!"
"Come back, come back, my own pretty maid, come back and marry me!
I have ten thousand pounds in gold, and that I'll give to thee,
Oh, come back, come back, my own pretty maid, come back and marry me!"
THE NYMPH'S REPLY
Sir
Walter Raleigh (1552-1618)
If
all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These
pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Time
drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And
Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The
flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A
honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy
gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon
break, soon wither, soon forgotten,--
In
folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy
belt of straw and ivy buds,
The
coral clasps and amber studs,
All
these in me no means can move
To
come to thee and be thy love.
But
could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then
these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
PASSION
Charlotte
Bronte
SOME
have won a wild delight,
By daring wilder sorrow;
Could
I gain thy love to-night,
I'd hazard death to-morrow.
Could
the battle-struggle earn
One kind glance from thine eye,
How
this withering heart would burn,
The heady fight to try!
Welcome
nights of broken sleep,
And days of carnage cold,
Could
I deem that thou wouldst weep
To hear my perils told.
Tell
me, if with wandering bands
I
roam full far away,
Wilt
thou, to those distant lands,
In spirit ever stray?
Wild,
long, a trumpet sounds afar;
Bid me–bid me go
Where
Seik and Briton meet in war,
On
Indian Sutlej's flow.
Blood
has dyed the Sutlej's waves
With scarlet stain, I know;
Indus'
borders yawn with graves,
Yet, command me go!
Though
rank and high the holocaust
Of nations, steams to heaven,
Glad
I'd join the death-doomed host,
Were but the mandate given.
Passion's
strength should nerve my arm,
Its ardour stir my life,
Till
human force to that dread charm
Should yield and sink in wild alarm,
Like
trees to tempest-strife.
If,
hot from war, I seek thy love,
Darest thou turn aside?
Darest
thou, then, my fire reprove,
By scorn, and maddening pride?
No–my
will shall yet control
Thy will, so high and free,
And
love shall tame that haughty soul–
Yes–tenderest love for me.
I'll
read my triumph in thine eyes,
Behold, and prove the change;
Then
leave, perchance, my noble prize,
Once more in arms to range.
I'd
die when all the foam is up,
The bright wine sparkling high;
Nor
wait till in the exhausted cup
Life's dull dregs only lie.
Then
Love thus crowned with sweet reward,
Hope blest with fulness large,
I'd
mount the saddle, draw the sword,
And perish in the charge!
Emily
Jane Bronte (1818-1848)
OH,
thy bright eyes must answer now,
When Reason, with a scornful brow,
Is
mocking at my overthrow!
Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me
And
tell why I have chosen thee !
Stern Reason is to judgment come,
Arrayed
in all her forms of gloom :
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb?
No,
radiant angel, speak and say
Why I did cast the world away,--
Why
I have persevered to shun
The common paths that others run ;
And
on a strange road journeyed on,
Heedless,
alike of wealth and power --
Of
glory's wreath and pleasure's flower.
These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine ;
And
they, perchance, heard vows of mine,
And saw my offerings on their shrine ;
But
careless gifts are seldom prized,
And mine were worthily despised.
So,
with a ready heart, I swore
To seek their altar-stone no more ;
And
gave my spirit to adore
Thee, ever-present, phantom thing--
My
slave, my comrade, and my king.
A
slave, because I rule thee still ;
Incline
thee to my changeful will,
And make thy influence good or ill :
A
comrade, for by day and night
Thou art my intimate delight,--
My
darling pain that wounds and sears,
And wrings a blessing out from tears
By
deadening me to earthly cares ;
And yet, a king, though Prudence well
Have
taught thy subject to rebel.
And am I wrong to worship where
Faith
cannot doubt, nor hope despair,
Since my own soul can grant my prayer?
Speak,
God of visions, plead for me,
And tell why I have chosen thee!
SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER'S DAY
William
Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Shall
I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough
winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime
too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion
dimm'd;
And
every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course
untrimm'd;
But
thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou
ow'st;
Nor
shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou
grow'st:
So
long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
SHE
WALKS IN BEAUTY
George
Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824)
She
walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And
all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus
mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One
shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which
waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where
thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And
on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The
smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A
mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
THE
WIFE’S WILL
Charlotte
Bronte
SIT
still–a word–a breath may break
(As light airs stir a sleeping lake,)
The
glassy calm that soothes my woes,
The sweet, the deep, the full repose.
O
leave me not ! for ever be
Thus, more than life itself to me!
Yes,
close beside thee, let me kneel–
Give me thy hand that I may feel
The
friend so true–so tried–so dear,
My heart's own chosen–indeed is near;
And
check me not–this hour divine
Belongs to me–is fully mine.
'Tis
thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside,
After long absence–wandering wide;
'Tis
thy own wife reads in thine eyes,
A promise clear of stormless skies,
For
faith and true love light the rays,
Which shine responsive to her gaze.
Aye,–well
that single tear may fall;
Ten thousand might mine eyes recall,
Which
from their lids, ran blinding fast,
In hours of grief, yet scarcely past,
Well
may'st thou speak of love to me;
For, oh! most truly–I love thee!
Yet
smile–for we are happy now.
Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow?
What
say'st thou? "We must once again,
Ere long, be severed by the main?"
I
knew not this–I deemed no more,
Thy step would err from Britain's shore.
"Duty
commands?" 'Tis true–'tis just;
Thy slightest word I wholly trust,
Nor
by request, nor faintest sigh
Would I, to turn thy purpose, try;
But,
William–hear my solemn vow–
Hear and confirm !–with thee I go.
"Distance
and suffering," did'st thou say?
"Danger by night, and toil by day?"
Oh,
idle words, and vain are these;
Hear
me ! I cross with thee the seas.
Such
risk as thou must meet and dare,
I–thy true wife–will duly share.
Passive,
at home, I will not pine;
Thy toils–thy perils, shall be mine;
Grant
this–and be hereafter paid
By a warm heart's devoted aid:
'Tis
granted–with that yielding kiss,
Entered my soul unmingled bliss.
Thanks,
William–thanks ! thy love has joy,
Pure–undefiled with base alloy;
'Tis
not a passion, false and blind,
Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind;
Worthy,
I feel, art thou to be
Loved with my perfect energy.
This
evening, now, shall sweetly flow,
Lit by our clear fire's happy glow;
And
parting's peace-embittering fear,
Is warned, our hearts to come not near;
For
fate admits my soul's decree,
In bliss or bale–to go with thee!
Emily
Dickinson (1830-1886)
Wild
nights--wild nights!
Were
I with thee
Wild
nights should be
Our
luxury!
Futile
the winds
To
a heart in port--
Done
with the compass,
Done
with the chart!
Rowing
in Eden--
Ah,
the sea!
Might
I moor, tonight,
In
thee!
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