« ПретходнаНастави »
I will make an Eve, be the Artist that began her, Shaped her to his mind !-Alas ! in like manner They circle their rose on my rose tree.
This is a spray the bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure
Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,So to be singled out, built in, and sung to !
This is a heart the queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on,Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on !
A PRETTY WOMAN.
THAT fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you, And so keep you what they make you, Sweet !
For a word's sake
Or a sword's sake : All 's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.
You and youth too,
Eyes and mouth too,
All 's our own, to make the most of, Sweet
Sing and say for,
Watch and pray for,
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Though we prayed you,
Paid you, brayed you
So, we leave the sweet face fundly there .
Be its beauty
Its sole duty!
And while the face lies quiet there,
Who shall wonder
That I ponder
Scout mere liking ?
Thunder-striking Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone !
Why, with beauty, needs there money be,
Love with liking ?
Crush the fly-king
If love grew there
'T would undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
Would you mend it
And so end it?
Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
Shall we burn up, tread that face at once
And so hinder
Your love fancies !
-A sick man sees
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,
Plucks a mould-flower
For his gold flower,
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,
Ape the petals,-
Leave it, rather.
Must you gather ?
A LIGHT WOMAN.
Which do you pity the most of us three ? -
With her wanton eyes, or me?
My friend was already too good to lose,
And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose
And over him drew her net.
A shame, said I, if she adds just him
The hundredth for a whim !
How easy to prove to him, I said,
Though she snaps at a wren instead !
So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,
My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake,
And gave me herself indeed.
The wren is he, with his maiden face. -You look away and your lip is curled ?
Patience, a moment's space!
He eyes me as the basilisk:
Eclipsing his sun's disk,