Love is its own great loveliness alway, And takes new lustre from the touch of time; Its bough owns no December and no May, But bears its blossom into Winter's clime. Thomas Hood. XV. LOVE'S THOUGHTS. MUSIC, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Percy Bysshe Shelley. XVI. LOVE'S EMBLEMS. Now the lusty Spring is seen; Yet, the lusty Spring hath staid; Winding gently to the waist; Beaumont and Fletcher. XVII. LOVE-LIGHT. SHE is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; Until she smiled on me. O then I saw her eye was bright, But now her looks are coy and cold, The love-light in her eye; Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are. Hartley Coleridge. XVIII. LOVE'S LOVERS. SOME ladies love the jewels in Love's zone, And some that listen to his lute's soft tone Do love to deem the silver praise their own; Some prize his blindfold sight; and there be they Therefore Love's heart, my lady, hath for thee Dante Gabriel Rossetti. XIX. LOVE'S ECHOES. THE splendour falls on castle walls Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying ; O hark! O hear! how thin and clear, O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O Love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river : Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying; And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. Alfred Tennyson. XX. THE LOOK OF LOVE. 'Tis not the lily brow I prize, A thousand-fold more dear to me Samuel Taylor Coleridge, XXI. LOVE'S COLOURS. NOT violets I gave my love, That in their life are sweet and rare, And deep in colour, as the heart Whose every thought of her is prayer ; For violets grow pale and dry, And lose the semblance of her eye. No lily's bud I gave my love, Though she is white and pure as they; And pressed by love, in love's own page, But cyclamen I chose to give, Whose pale white blossoms at the tips (All else is driven snow) are pink, And mind me of her perfect lips; Still, till this flower is kept and old, Its worth to love is yet untold. Old, kept, and kissed, it does not lose This flower that purples when it dies. So shall my love, as years roll by, C. C. Fraser Tytler. XXII. THE SWEETS OF LOVE. Aн, how sweet it is to love! Ah, how gay is young desire! Sighs which are from lovers blown Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Love and Time with reverence use; Which in youth sincere they send; |