Sacred Life, more sweet and fair In the blue I adored, in the grass I caressed: To thee the rose her odour, Her glory dedicates ; And thee the pink's sweet-budded fringe For thee is the sprinkled fire of the broom, O child, does thy heart not tell thee how Stricken with joy and wonder, I raised my eyes around, And saw what mystery flowered for me The roses, the roses, rich entwined, Yearning up from the dusk of death, They trembled towards me with living breath. Now forth to the world attended By the spirits of that hour, Wise men now, profound in care, Pass me with distrustful air: But the child perceives, and the careless boy And my love in a glory enshrines my bliss Laurence Binyon. Song (From the Third Book of Airs) OME! O come, my life's delight! COME Let me not in languor pine! Love loves no delay; thy sight, The more enjoyed, the more divine! O come, and take from me The pain of being deprived of thee! Thou all sweetness dost enclose ! Like a little world of bliss: Beauty guards thy looks! The rose In them, pure and eternal is. Come then! and make thy flight Thomas Campion. Song (From the Third Book of Airs) SLEEP, angry beauty, sleep, and fear not me! My words have charmed her, for secure she sleeps ; Though guilty much, of wrong done to my love; And, in her slumber, see! she, close-eyed, weeps! Dreams often, more than waking passions move. Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make her soft like thee! That she, in peace, may wake, and pity me. Song Thomas Campion. (From Songs and Sonnets) SWEETEST love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in the hope the world can show But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best, Yesternight the sun went hence, He hath no desire nor sense, But believe that I shall make O how feeble is man's power, And we join to it our strength, Itself o'er us to advance. When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, My life's blood doth decay. It cannot be That thou lov'st me as thou say'st, Let not thy divining heart Destiny may take thy part, But think that we Are but turn'd aside to sleep, Alive, ne'er parted be. John Donne. (From the Passionate Pilgrim) AIR is my love, but not so fair as fickle; FAIR Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty; Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle; Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty : A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, Her lips to mine how often hath she join'd, She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth, Bad in the best, though excellent in neither. |