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The moon will veil her in the shade ;
The sun will set at night.
The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he's away;
So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day,
O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie :
There's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree ;
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet ;
Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.
'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom ; The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume ;
There's crimson buds, and white and blue--
The very rainbow showers
Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.
There's fairy tulips in the east,
The garden of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossoms as they run:
While Morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers ;
Then, lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into Rowers !
It is the verdict of my eyes,
Amidst the gay and young : I love thee- I love thee !
A thousand maids among.
I love thee- I love thee !
Thy bright and hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips,
Whose tender tones entrance ; But most, dear heart of hearts, tny proofs
That still these words enhance, I love thee- I love thee !
Whatever be thy chance.
Let us make a leap, my dear,
In our love, of many a year
And date it very far away,
On a bright clear summer day.
When the heart was like a sun
To itself, and falsehood none;
And the rosy lips a part
Of the very loving heart,
And the shining of the eye
But a sign to know it by ;-
When my faults were all forgiven,
And my life deserved of Heaven.
Dearest, let us reckon so,
And love for all that long ago ;
Each abser.ce count a year complete,
And keep a birthday when we meet.
LOOK how the lark soars upward and is gone,
Turning a spirit as he nears the sky!
His voice is heard, but body there is none
To fix the vague excursions of the eye.
So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die
Obscured, and hid by death's oblivious shroud,
And Earth inherits the rich melody
Like raining music from the morning cloud.
Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud
Their voices reach us through the lapse of space:
The noisy day is deafen’d by a crowd
Of undistinguish'd birds, a twittering race;
But only lark and nightingale forlorn
Fill up the silences of night and morn.
“FAREWELL-Farewell"—it is an awful word
When that the quick do speak it to the dead;
For though 'tis brief upon the speaker's lips,
'Tis more than death can answer to, and hath
No living echo on the living ear.
'Tis awful to behold the midnight stars
They say do rule the destinies of men,
* These lines are repeated in the fourth verse of “Hero and Leander."
Gazing upon us from that point of space,
Where they were set even from their lustrous birth,
With a most sure foreknowledge of our doom
Watching its consummation.