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Beneath her eyelids deep

Love lying seems asleep,
Love, swift to wake, to weep,

To laugh, to gaze;

Her breasts are like white birds,
And all her gracious words

As water-grass to herds

In the June-days.

To her all dews that fall
And rains are musical;
Her flowers are fed from all,
Her joys from these;
In the deep-feathered firs
Their gift of joy is hers,

In the least breath that stirs

Across the trees.

She grows with greenest leaves,
Ripens with reddest sheaves,
Forgets, remembers, grieves,
And is not sad;

The quiet lands and skies
Leave light upon her eyes;

None knows her, weak or wise,

Or tired or glad.

None knows, none understands,
What flowers are like her hands;
Though you should search all lands
Wherein time grows,

What snows are like her feet,
Though his eyes burn with heat

Through gazing on my sweet,—
Yet no man knows.

Only this thing is said;

That white and gold and red,

God's three chief words, man's bread

And oil and wine,

"Meet We No Angels, Pansie?" 567

• Were given her for dowers,
And kingdom of all hours,
And grace of goodly flowers
And various vine.

This is my lady's praise:
God after many days

Wrought her in unknown ways,
In sunset lands;

This is my lady's birth;

God gave her might and mirth.
And laid his whole sweet earth
Between her hands.

Under deep apple boughs
My lady hath her house;
She wears upon her brows
The flower thereof;

All saying but what God saith

To her is as vain breath;

She is more strong than death,

Being strong as love.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

"MEET WE NO ANGELS, PANSIE?"

CAME, on a Sabbath morn, my sweet,
In white, to find her lover;

The grass grew proud beneath her feet,
The green elm-leaves above her:-
Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, "We meet no angels now";
And soft lights streamed upon her;
And with white hand she touched a bough;
She did it that great honor:-

What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes,
Down-dropped brown eyes, so tender!
Then what said I?-gallant replies
Seem flattery, and offend her:-

But, meet we no angels, Pansic?

Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]

TO DAPHNE

LIKE apple-blossoms, white and red;
Like hues of dawn, which fly too soon;
Like bloom of peach, so softly spread;
Like thorn of May and rose of June-
Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare,
Are Daphne's cheeks,

Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

That pretty rose, which comes and goes
Like April sunshine in the sky,
I can command it when I choose-
See how it rises if I cry:

Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare,
Are Daphne's cheeks,

Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Ah! when it lies round lips and eyes,
And fades away, again to spring,
No lover, sure, could ask for more

Than still to cry, and still to sing:
Oh, sweet! oh, fair! beyond compare,

Are Daphne's cheeks,

Are Daphne's blushing cheeks, I swear.

Walter Besant [1836-1901]

"GIRL OF THE RED MOUTH"

GIRL of the red mouth,

Love me! Love me!

Girl of the red mouth,

Love me!

The Daughter of Mendoza

"Tis by its curve, I know, Love fashioneth his bow, And bends it-ah, even so!

Oh, girl of the red mouth, love me!

Girl of the blue eye,

Love me! Love me!

Girl of the dew eye,

Love me!

Worlds hang for lamps on high;
And thought's world lives in thy
Lustrous and tender eye-

Oh, girl of the blue eye, love me!

Girl of the swan's neck,

Love me! Love me!

Girl of the swan's neck,
Love me!

As a marble Greek doth grow

To his steed's back of snow,

Thy white neck sits thy shoulder so,

Oh, girl of the swan's neck, love me!

Girl of the low voice,

Love me! Love me!

Girl of the sweet voice,

Love me!

Like the echo of a bell,

Like the bubbling of a well,

Sweeter! Love within doth dwell,

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Oh, girl of the low voice, love me!
Martin MacDermott [1823-1905]

THE DAUGHTER OF MENDOZA

O LEND to me, sweet nightingale,
Your music by the fountain,

And lend to me your cadences,
O river of the mountain!

570

That I may sing my gay brunette,
A diamond spark in coral set,
Gem for a prince's coronet-

The daughter of Mendoza.

How brilliant is the morning star,
The evening star how tender,-
The light of both is in her eyes,

Their softness and their splendor.
But for the lash that shades their light
They were too dazzling for the sight,
And when she shuts them, all is night—
The daughter of Mendoza.

O ever bright and beauteous one,
Bewildering and beguiling,
The lute is in thy silvery tones,

The rainbow in thy smiling;
And thine, is, too, o'er hill and dell,

The bounding of the young gazelle,

The arrow's flight and ocean's swell-
Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

What though, perchance, we no more meet,

What though too soon we sever?
Thy form will float like emerald light

Before my vision ever.

For who can see and then forget

The glories of my gay brunette

Thou art too bright a star to set,

Sweet daughter of Mendoza!

Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar [1798-1859]

IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED "

IF she be made of white and red,
As all transcendent beauty shows;
If heaven be blue above her head,
And earth be golden, as she goes:
Nay, then thy deftest words restrain;
Tell not that beauty, it is vain.

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