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INSUFFICIENCY.

INSUFFICIENCY.

THERE is no one beside thee and no one above thee,
Thou standest alone, as the nightingale sings!

And my words that would praise thee are impotent things. For none can express thee though all should approve thee. I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

Say what can I do for thee? weary thee, grieve thee?
Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens to add?
Weep my tears over thee, making thee sad?
Oh, hold me not-love me not! let me retrieve thee.
I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

INCLUSIONS.

OH! wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine? As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and

pine.

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, . . unfit to plight with

thine.

Oh! wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine

own?

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run

down.

Now leave a little space, Dear,.. lest it should wet thine

own.

Oh! must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?

Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand, . . the part is in the whole!

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to

soul.

E. B. Browning.

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LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me-who knows how?

To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream-
The champak odours fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint

It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
Beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

P. B. Shelley.

A NIGHT-SONG OF LOVE.

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

A. Tennyson.

MORNING SONG TO MAUD.

I.

COME into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

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MORNING SONG TO MAUD.

2.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

3.

There has fall'n a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

4.

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat
Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

A. Tennyson.