TO A CARRIER PIGEON. My cheek is cold and white, alas! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 123 To a Carrier Pigeon. 'OME hither, thou beautiful rover, COM Thou wanderer of earth and of air, And show me the gloss of thy neck: Here is bread of the brightest and sweetest, Though thy wing is the lightest and fleetest, With thy wing-quill, a soft billet-doux; I have melted the wax in love's taper,'Tis the color of true heart's sky-blue. I have fastened it under thy pinion, While the pure ether shows not a speck.- And farther and farther retreating, JAMES G. PERCIVAL I Love.-(Songs of Seven.) LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover, Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; "Now if there be footsteps, he comes, my one loverHush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near; "The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. "You night-moths that hover where honey brims over For the time runs to waste, "Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, JEAN INGELOW. THE FLOWER'S NAME. 125 The Flower's Name. HERE's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since ; Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! Down this side of the gravel-walk She went, while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder see, where the rock-plants lie ! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase! And ever I see her soft white fingers Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not; Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Measure my lady's lightest footfall; Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces- ROBERT BROWNING. Too Late I Stayed. OO late I stayed-forgive the crime! How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers! And who with clear account remarks When all its sands are diamond sparks, Oh, who to sober measurement Their plumage to his wings? WILLIAM R. SPENCER. ABSENCE. As to the Distant Moon. AS to the distant moon The sea forever turns; As to the polar star The earth forever yearns: So doth my constant heart Beat oft for thine alone, And o'er its far-off heaven of dreams Thine image high enthrone. But ah! the sea and moon, The earth and star meet never; And space as wide, and dark, and high Divideth us forever! 127 ANNE C. LYNCH. Absence. WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours WHAT That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that sweet time of grace? Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense- Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? O, how, or by what means, may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here? |