Ah, well-but sing the foolish song It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That trembles at her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise With her laughter or her sighs, 1 A trifle, sweet! which true love spells True love interprets-right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone, The day, when in the chestnut shade Love that hath us in the net, Many a chance the years beget. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love? for we forget: Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed: they had their part Became an outward breathing type, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear-who wrought With blessings beyond hope or thought, Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds; FATIMA. O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might! Last night I wasted hateful hours I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth : Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name, Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. |