Chapter 11

The moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The bee's kiss, now! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

SUMMUM BONUM

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine, - wonder, wealth, and - how far above them - Truth, that's brighter than gem, Trust, that's purer than pearl, - Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe - all were for me In the kiss of one girl.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

THE FIRST KISS

If only in dreams may man be fully blest, Is heaven a dream? Is she I clasped a dream? Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam And miles of furze shine golden down the West? I seem to clasp her still - still on my breast Her bosom beats, - I see the blue eyes beam: - I think she kissed these lips, for now they seem Scarce mine: so hallowed of the lips they pressed! Yon thicket's breath - can that be eglantine? Those birds - can they be morning's choristers? Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze? Like burning bushes fired of God they shine! I seem to know them, though this body of mine Passed into spirit at the touch of hers!

Theodore Watts-Dunton [1836-1914]

TO MY LOVE

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; Malice has ever a vigilant ear; What if Malice were lurking near? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; Envy, too, has a watchful ear; What if Envy should chance to hear? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low,

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; Trust me, darling, the time is near When lovers may love with never a fear; Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]

TO LESBIA

Give me kisses! Do not stay, Counting in that careful way. All the coins your lips can print Never will exhaust the mint. Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!

Give me kisses! Do not stop, Measuring nectar by the drop. Though to millions they amount, They will never drain the fount. Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!

Give me kisses! All is waste Save the luxury we taste; And for kissing, - kisses live Only when we take or give. Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!

Give me kisses! Though their worth Far exceeds the gems of earth, Never pearls so rich and pure Cost so little, I am sure. Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!

Give me kisses! Nay, 'tis true I am just as rich as you; And for every kiss I owe, I can pay you back, you know, Kiss me, then, Every moment - and again!

John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]

MAKE BELIEVE

Kiss me, though you make believe; Kiss me, though I almost know You are kissing to deceive: Let the tide one moment flow Backward ere it rise and break, Only for poor pity's sake!

Give me of your flowers one leaf, Give me of your smiles one smile, Backward roll this tide of grief Just a moment, though, the while, I should feel and almost know You are trifling with my woe.

Whisper to me sweet and low; Tell me how you sit and weave Dreams about me, though I know It is only make believe! Just a moment, though 'tis plain You are jesting with my pain.

Alice Cary [1820-1871]

KISSING'S NO SIN

Some say that kissing's a sin; But I think it's nane ava, For kissing has wonn'd in this warld Since ever that there was twa.

O, if it wasna lawfu' Lawyers wadna allow it; If it wasna holy, Ministers wadna do it.

If it wasna modest, Maidens wadna tak' it; If it wasna plenty, Puir folk wadna get it.

Unknown

TO ANNE

How many kisses do I ask? Now you set me to my task. First, sweet Anne, will you tell me How many waves are in the sea? How many stars are in the sky? How many lovers you make sigh? How many sands are on the shore? I shall want just one kiss more.

William Stirling-Maxwell [1818-1878]

SONG

There is many a love in the land, my love, But never a love like this is; Then kill me dead with your love, my love, And cover me up with kisses.

So kill me dead and cover me deep Where never a soul discovers; Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep, In the darlingest tomb of lovers.

Joaquin Miller [1839-1913]

PHILLIS AND CORYDON

Phillis took a red rose from the tangles of her hair, - Time, the Golden Age; the place, Arcadia, anywhere, -

Phillis laughed, the saucy jade: "Sir Shepherd, wilt have this, Or" - Bashful god of skipping lambs and oaten reeds! - "a kiss?"

Bethink thee, gentle Corydon! A rose lasts all night long, A kiss but slips from off your lips like a thrush's evening song.

A kiss that goes, where no one knows! A rose, a crimson rose! Corydon made his choice and took - Well, which do you suppose?

Arthur Colton [1868-

AT HER WINDOW

"HARK, HARK, THE LARK" From "Cymbeline"

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

"SLEEP, ANGRY BEAUTY"

Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not me! For who a sleeping lion dares provoke? It shall suffice me here to sit and see Those lips shut up, that never kindly spoke: What sight can more content a lover's mind Than beauty seeming harmless, if not kind?

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 is peace may wake and pity me.

Thomas Campion [? -1619]

MATIN SONG

Rise, Lady Mistress, rise! The night hath tedious been; No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes Nor slumbers made me sin. Is not she a saint then, say, Thoughts of whom keep sin away?

Rise, Madam! rise and give me light, Whom darkness still will cover, And ignorance, darker than night, Till thou smile on thy lover. All want day till thy beauty rise; For the gray morn breaks from thine eyes.

Nathaniel Field [1587-1633]

THE NIGHT-PIECE: TO JULIA

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber: What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light Like tapers clear without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

MORNING

The lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing shakes his dewy wings, He takes your window for the east, And to implore your light, he sings; Awake, awake, the morn will never rise, Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

William D'Avenant [1606-1668]

MATIN-SONG From "The Rape of Lucrece"

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day, With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow!

Thomas Heywood [? -1650?]

THE ROSE

Sweet, serene, sky-like flower, Haste to adorn her bower; From thy long-cloudy bed, Shoot forth thy damask head.

New-startled blush of Flora, The grief of pale Aurora (Who will contest no more), Haste, haste to strew her floor!

Vermilion ball that's given From lip to lip in Heaven; Love's couch's coverled, Haste, haste to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleased Venus And jolly, plump Silenus, Haste, haste to deck the hair Of the only sweetly fair!

See! rosy is her bower, Her floor is all this flower Her bed a rosy nest By a bed of roses pressed.

But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah! I have found, I fear, - Because her cheeks are near.

Richard Lovelace [1618-1658]

SONG

See, see, she wakes! Sabina wakes! And now the sun begins to rise; Less glorious is the morn that breaks From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.

With light united, day they give; But different fates ere night fulfil; How many by his warmth will live! How many will her coldness kill!

William Congreve [1670-1729]

MARY MORISON

O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stour A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison!

Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', "Ye arena Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wiltna gie, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

WAKE, LADY!

Up! quit thy bower! late wears the hour, Long have the rooks cawed round the tower; O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, And the wild kid sports merrily. The sun is bright, the sky is clear: Wake, lady, wake! and hasten here.

Up! maiden fair, and bind thy hair, And rouse thee in the breezy air! The lulling stream that soothed thy dream Is dancing in the sunny beam. Waste not these hours, so fresh and gay; Leave thy soft couch, and haste away!

Up! Time will tell the morning bell Its service-sound has chimed well; The aged crone keeps house alone, The reapers to the fields are gone. Lose not these hours, so cool and gay: Lo! while thou sleep'st they haste away!

Joanna Baillie [1762-1851]

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile - Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow: Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish - and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast: - And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above control Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: And may the secret of thy soul Remain within its sanctuary!

Samuel Rogers [1763-1855]

"THE YOUNG MAY MOON"

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love; How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake! - the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear; And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star More glorious far Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake! - till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or in watching the flight Of bodies of light He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"ROW GENTLY HERE"

Row gently here, My gondolier, So softly wake the tide, That not an ear, On earth, may hear, But hers to whom we glide. Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well As starry eyes to see, Oh think what tales 'twould have to tell Of wandering youths like me!

Now rest thee here, My gondolier; Hush, hush, for up I go, To climb yon light Balcony's height, While thou keep'st watch below. Ah! did we take for Heaven above But half such pains as we Take, day and night, for woman's love, What angels we should be!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

MORNING SERENADE

Awake! the dawn is on the hills! Behold, at her cool throat a rose, Blue-eyed and beautiful she goes, Leaving her steps in daffodils. - Awake! arise! and let me see Thine eyes, whose deeps epitomize All dawns that were or are to be, O love, all Heaven in thine eyes! - Awake! arise! come down to me!

Behold! the dawn is up: behold! How all the birds around her float, Wild rills of music, note on note, Spilling the air with mellow gold. - Arise! awake! and, drawing near, Let me but hear thee and rejoice! Thou, who keep'st captive, sweet and clear, All song, O love, within thy voice! Arise! awake! and let me hear!

See, where she comes, with limbs of day, The dawn! with wild-rose hands and feet, Within whose veins the sunbeams beat, And laughters meet of wind and ray. Arise! come down! and, heart to heart, Love, let me clasp in thee all these - The sunbeam, of which thou art part, And all the rapture of the breeze! - Arise! come down! loved that thou art!

Madison Cawein [1865-1914]

SERENADE

Softly, O midnight Hours! Move softly o'er the bowers Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! For ye have power, men say, Our hearts in sleep to sway, And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. Round ivory neck and arm Enclasp a separate charm; Hang o'er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayer: Silently ye may smile, But hold your breath the while, And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!

Bend down your glittering urns, Ere yet the dawn returns, And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; Upon the air rain balm, Bid all the woods be calm, Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed; That so the Maiden may With smiles your care repay, When from her couch she lifts her golden head; Waking with earliest birds, Ere yet the misty herds Leave warm 'mid the gray grass their dusky bed.

Aubrey Thomas De Vere [1814-1902]

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me - who knows how? To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream; The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it must break at last.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

GOOD-NIGHT

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood, Then it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

SERENADE From "Sylvia"

Awake thee, my lady-love, Wake thee and rise! The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes!

Behold how the early lark Springs from the corn! Hark, hark how the flower-bird Winds her wee horn!

The swallow's glad shriek is heard All through the air; The stock-dove is murmuring Loud as she dare!

Apollo's winged bugleman Cannot contain, But peals his loud trumpet-call Once and again!

Then wake thee, my lady-love - Bird of my bower! The sweetest and sleepiest Bird at this hour!

George Darley [1795-1846]

SERENADE

Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how I wake and passionate watches keep; And yet, while I address thee now, Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hushed so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! With golden visions for thy dower, While I this midnight vigil keep, And bless thee in thy silent bower; To me 'tis sweeter than the power Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled, That I alone, at this still hour, In patient love outwatch the world.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

SERENADE

Look out upon the stars, my love, And shame them with thine eyes, On which, than on the lights above, There hang more destinies. Night's beauty is the harmony Of blending shades and light: Then, lady, up, - look out, and be A sister to the night!

Sleep not! - thine image wakes for aye Within my watching breast; Sleep not! - from her soft sleep should fly, Who robs all hearts of rest. Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay, With looks whose brightness well might make Of darker nights a day.

Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]

SERENADE

Hide, happy damask, from the stars, What sleep enfolds behind your veil, But open to the fairy cars On which the dreams of midnight sail; And let the zephyrs rise and fall About her in the curtained gloom, And then return to tell me all The silken secrets of the room.

Ah! dearest! may the elves that sway Thy fancies come from emerald plots, Where they have dozed and dreamed all day In hearts of blue forget-me-nots. And one perhaps shall whisper thus: Awake! and light the darkness, Sweet! While thou art reveling with us, He watches in the lonely street.

Henry Timrod [1829-1867]

SERENADE From "The Spanish Student"

Stars of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch! while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

"COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD" From "Maud"

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown.

For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirred To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, "For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall: And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sighed for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near"; And the white rose weeps, "She is late"; The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear"; And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

AT HER WINDOW

Ah, Minstrel, how strange is The carol you sing! Let Psyche, who ranges The garden of spring, Remember the changes December will bring.

Beating Heart! we come again Where my Love reposes: This is Mabel's window-pane; These are Mabel's roses.

Is she nested? Does she kneel In the twilight stilly, Lily clad from throat to heel, She, my virgin Lily?

Soon the wan, the wistful stars, Fading, will forsake her; Elves of light, on beamy bars, Whisper then, and wake her.

Let this friendly pebble plead At her flowery grating; If she hear me will she heed? Mabel, I am waiting.

Mabel will be decked anon, Zoned in bride's apparel; Happy zone! Oh hark to yon Passion-shaken carol!

Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, Pipe thy best, thy clearest; - Hush, her lattice moves, oh hush - Dearest Mabel! - dearest....

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

BEDOUIN SONG

From the Desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!

Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!

My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!

Bayard Taylor [1825-1878]

NIGHT AND LOVE From "Ernest Maltravers"

When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes, As stars look on the sea!

For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest when they shine; Mine earthly love lies hushed in light Beneath the heaven of thine.

There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch o'er men, When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep - Sweet spirit, meet me then