Two little hands that meet,
Claspt on her seal, my sweet !
Must I take you and break you,
Two little hands that meet ?
I must take you, and break you,
And loving hands must part-
Take, take-break, break-
Break-you may break my heart

Faint-heart never won-
Break, break, and all's done.

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,
And flit like the king of the wrens with
a crown of fire.

Why?
For it's ay ay, ay ay.

Light, so low upon earth,

You send a flash to the sun.
Here is the golden close of love,

All my wooing is done.
Oh, the woods and the meadows,

Woods where we hid from the wet,
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind,

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.

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 what to her shall be the end ?

And what to me remains of good ?

To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend.

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.

VII.
Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to

beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp'd no more-

Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here ; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove,

That sittest ranging golden hair ;

And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love !

For now her father's chimney glows

In expectation of a guest;
And thinking this will please him

best,'
She takes a riband or a rose ;
For he will see them on to-night ;

And with the thought her colour

burns;

And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right ;

VIII.
A happy lover who has come

To look on her that loves him well,

Who’lights and rings thegateway 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
The chambers emptied of delight :
So find I every pleasant spot

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.

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.