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Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,
Relaxt the frosty twine;

The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.

As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly-visioned boughs,

As these young lovers face to face
Renew their early vows.



Lord Houghton.



I hear no more the locust beat

His shrill loud drum through all the day;
I miss the mingled odours sweet

Of clover and of scented hay.

No more I hear the smothered song

From hedges guarded thick with thorn:

The days grow brief, the nights are long,
The light comes like a ghost at morn.

I sit before my fire alone,

And idly dream of all the past:

I think of moments that are flown



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I feel the soft winds fan my cheek,

I hear them murmur through the rye,
I see the milky clouds that seek
Some nameless harbour in the sky.


The stile beside the spreading pine,
The pleasant fields beyond the grove,
The lawn where, underneath the vine,
She sang the song I used to love.

The path along the windy beach,
That leaves the shadowy linden tree,
And goes by sandy capes that reach
Their shining arms to clasp the sea.

I view them all, I tread once more
In meadow-grasses cool and deep;
I walk beside the sounding shore,
I climb again the wooded steep.



Oh, happy hours of pure delight!
Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss!
Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright—


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And broke in ripples on her neck,
And played like fire around her hat,
And slid adown her form to fleck
The moss-grown rock on which I sat.


She standing rapt in sweet surprise,
And seeming doubtful if to turn;


Her novel, as I raised my eyes,

Dropped down amid the tall green fern.

This day and that-the one so bright,
The other like a thing forlorn;
To-morrow, and the early light
Will shine upon her marriage morn.

For when the mellow autumn flushed
The thickets where the chestnut fell,
And in the vales the maple blushed,
Another came who knew her well,

Who sat with her below the pine,
And with her through the meadow moved,
And underneath the purpling vine

She sang to him the song I loved.

Nathaniel G. Shepherd.





Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answered thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream and all in vain :
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.




Alfred Tennyson.



Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet,
Thine odour, like a key,

Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let

A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow

Blows through that open door,

The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low

And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar, from that beloved place,

And that beloved hour,

When life hung ripening in love's golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,
A lark sings o'er my head,

Drowned in the sky-O pass, ye visions, pass,

I would that I were dead!

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door

From which I ever flee?

O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,

Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thy odour through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain

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William W. Story.

Sweet order hath its draught of bliss
Graced with the pearl of God's consent,

Ten times ecstatic in that 'tis

Considerate and innocent.

In vain disorder grasps the cup;

The pleasure 's not enjoyed, but spilt;
And, if he stoops to lick it up,

It only tastes of earth and guilt;
His sorry raptures rest destroys;
To live, like comets they must roam;
On settled poles turn solid joys,
And sun-like pleasures shine at home.


Coventry Patmore.


He safely walks in darkest ways,
Whose youth is lighted from above,
Where through the senses' silvery haze
Dawns the veiled moon of nuptial love.

Who is the happy husband? He,
Who scanning his unwedded life,
Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,
'Twas faithful to his future wife.



Coventry Patmore.

I give thee treasures hour by hour,
That old-time princes asked in vain,
And pined for in their useless power,
Or died of passion's eager pain.

I give thee love as God gives light,
Aside from merit, or from prayer,
Rejoicing in its own delight,
And freer than the lavish air.

I give thee prayers, like jewels strung
On golden threads of hope and fear;

And tenderer thoughts than ever hung
In a sad angel's pitying tear.




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