The loveliness that wanes not, In dreams she grows not older In dreams doth he behold her Andrew Lang [1844-1912] AN INTERLUDE IN the greenest growth of the Maytime, There was something the season wanted, The breath at your lips that panted, The pulse of the grass at your feet. You came, and the sun came after, And the green grew golden above; Your feet in the full-grown grasses Moved soft as a weak wind blows: You passed me as April passes, With face made out of a rose. By the stream where the stems were slender, It might be to watch the tender Light leaves in the springtime hedge, On boughs that the sweet month blanches It might be a bird in the branches, It might be a thorn in the way. An Interlude I waited to watch you linger With foot drawn back from the dew, Till a sunbeam straight like a finger Struck sharp through the leaves at you. And a bird overhead sang "Follow," I saw where the sun's hand pointed, As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember I remember the way we parted, And May with her world in flower A hand like a white wood-blossom And the best and the worst of this is If you've forgotten my kisses, And I've forgotten your name. 831 Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] HEBE I SAW the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet, That bowed my heart like barley bending. As, in bare fields, the searching bees Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates; I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp The beaker fell; the luck was over. The Earth has drunk the vintage up; Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's? O spendthrift haste! await the Gods; Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience; Haste scatters on unthankful sods The immortal gift in vain libations. Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor. James Russell Lowell [1819-1891] "Justine, You Love Me Not!" 833 "JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT!" "Helas! vous ne m'aimez pas.”—PIRON I KNOW, Justine, you speak me fair As often as we meet; And 'tis a luxury, I swear, To hear a voice so sweet; And yet it does not please me quite, I know Justine, you never scold "A charming temper," say the men, I wish 'twere ruffled now and then- I know, Justine, you wear a smile But who supposes all the while Though azure skies are fair to see, In yours would promise more to me- I know, Justine, you make my name And say-if any chance to blame You hold me in esteem. Such words, for all their kindly scope, Delight me not a jot; Just as you would have praised the Pope- I know, Justine-for I have heard There's nothing now to hope or fear Justine, you love me not! John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887] SNOWDROP WHEN, full of warm and eager love, "Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace." You kiss me just as you would kiss Some woman friend you chanced to see; You call me "dearest."-All love's forms Are yours, not its reality. Oh, Annie! cry, and storm, and rave! Hate me an hour, and then turn round WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room- |