SHE has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
She has counted six, and over,

Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried

Oh, each a worthy lover!

They "give her time"; for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving;
She will lie to none with her fair red lip:
But love seeks truer loving.

She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
As her thoughts were beyond recalling;
With a glance for one, and a glance for some,
From her eyelids rising and falling;

Speaks common words with a blushful air,

Hears bold words, unreproving;

But her silence says-what she never will swearAnd love seeks better loving.

Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,
And drop a smile to the bringer;
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
At the voice of an in-door singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
Glance lightly, on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries—
But dare not call it loving!

Unless you can think, when the song is done,

No other is soft in the rhythm;

Unless you can feel, when left by One,

That all men else go with him;

Unless you can know, when upraised by his breath,
That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear "For life, for death!".

Oh, fear to call it loving!

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,

With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past—
Oh, never call it loving!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

"LOVE HATH A LANGUAGE"

From "To My Son "

LOVE hath a language for all years—
Fond hieroglyphs, obscure and old-
Wherein the heart reads, writ in tears,

The tale which never yet was told.

Amaturus

Love hath his meter too, to trace

Those bounds which never yet were given,

To measure that which mocks at space,
Is deep as death, and high as heaven.

Love hath his treasure hoards, to pay
True faith, or goodly service done,-
Dear priceless nothings, which outweigh
All riches that the sun shines on.

481

Helen Selina Sheridan [1807-1867]

SONG

From "Maud"

O, LET the solid ground,

Not fail beneath my feet
Before my life has found

What some have found so sweet;

Then let come what come may,
What matter if I go mad,

I shall have had my day.

Let the sweet heavens endure,
Not close and darken above me

Before I am quite quite sure

That there is one to love me!
Then let come what come may
To a life that has been so sad,
I shall have had my day.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

AMATURUS

SOMEWHERE beneath the sun,

These quivering heart-strings prove it,

Somewhere there must be one

Made for this soul to move it;

Some one that hides her sweetness
From neighbors whom she slights,
Nor can attain completeness,

Nor give her heart its rights;
Some one whom I could court
With no great change of manner,
Still holding reason's fort,

Though waving fancy's banner;
A lady, not so queenly

As to disdain my hand, Yet born to smile serenely

Like those that rule the land;
Noble, but not too proud;

With soft hair simply folded,
And bright face crescent-browed,
And throat by Muses moulded;
And eyelids lightly falling
On little glistening seas,

Deep-calm, when gales are brawling,
Though stirred by every breeze;
Swift voice, like flight of dove
Through minster-arches floating,
With sudden turns, when love
Gets overnear to doting;
Keen lips, that shape soft sayings
Like crystals of the snow,
With pretty half-betrayings

Of things one may not know;
Fair hand whose touches thrill,
Like golden rod of wonder,
Which Hermes wields at will

Spirit and flesh to sunder;
Light foot, to press the stirrup
In fearlessness and glee,
Or dance, till finches chirrup,
And stars sink to the sea.

Forth, Love, and find this maid,
Wherever she be hidden:

Speak, Love, be not afraid,

But plead as thou art bidden;

A Ballad of Dreamland

And say, that he who taught thee
His yearning want and pain,
Too dearly, dearly bought thee

To part with thee in vain.

483

William Johnson-Cory [1823-1892]

THE SURFACE AND THE DEPTHS

LOVE took my life and thrilled it
Through all its strings,

Played round my mind and filled it
With sound of wings;

But to my heart he never came
To touch it with his golden flame.

Therefore it is that singing

I do rejoice,

Nor heed the slow years bringing

A harsher voice;

Because the songs which he has sung

Still leave the untouched singer young.

But whom in fuller fashion

The Master sways,

For him, swift-winged with passion,

Fleet the brief days.

Betimes the enforced accents come,

And leave him ever after dumb.

Lewis Morris [1833-1907]

A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND

I HID my heart in a nest of roses,

Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;

In a softer bed then the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.

Why would it sleep not? why should it start,

When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?

What made sleep flutter his wings and part? Only the song of a secret bird.