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will go on.
Two little hands that meet,
Faint-heart never won-
AY. Be merry, all birds, to-day, Be merry on earth as you never were
merry before, Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far away, And merry for ever and ever, and one day more.
Why? For it's easy to find a rhyme. Look, look, how he fits, The fire-crown'd king of the wrens, from
out of the pine ! Look how they tumble the blossom, the
mad little tits ! "Cuck-00 ! Cuck-oo !' was ever a May so fine?
Why? For it's easy to find a rhyme. O merry the linnet and dove, And swallow and sparrow and throstles,
and have your desire ! O merry my heart, you have gotten the
wings of love,
Light, so low upon earth,
You send a flash to the sun.
All my wooing is done.
Woods where we hid from the wet,
Meadows in which we met ! Light, so low in the vale .
You flash and lighten afar, For this is the golden morning of
love, And you are his morning star. Flash, I am coming, I come,
By meadow and stile and wood, Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart,
Into my heart and my blood ! Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires ? O heart, are you great enough for love ?
I have heard of thorns and briers. Over the thorns and briers,
Over the meadows and stiles, Over the world to the end of it
Flash for a million miles.
O what to her shall be the end ?
And what to me remains of good ?
To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend.
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more :
Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. O father, wheresoe'er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son ;
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still’d the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor,-- while thy head is bow'd,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something
thought ; Expecting still his advent home ;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, here to-day, Or here to-morrow will he come. O somewhere, meek unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair ;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
In expectation of a guest ;
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.
To look on her that loves him well,
Who’lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home ; He saddens, all the magic light
Dies off at once from bower and hall,
And all the place is dark, and all
In which we two were wont to meet,
The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there
In those deserted walks, may find
A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she foster'd up with care ; So seems it in my deep regret,
O my forsaken heart, with thee
And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet.
For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour
And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn'd, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown'd in passing thro’ the ford, Or kill'd in falling from his horse.