THE SNOWDROP

MANY, many welcomes
February fair-maid,

Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,

Coming in the cold time,

Prophet of the gay time,

Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes
February fair-maid!

A FAREWELL

FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet, then a river:

No where by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree,
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS

The Little Grave

As thro' the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,

We fell out, my wife and I,
O we fell out I know not why,

And kiss'd again with tears.
And blessings on the falling out
That all the more endears,

When we fall out with those we love

And kiss again with tears!

For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years,

There above the little grave,

O there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.

"Sweet and low"

SWEET and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

The Bugle Song

THE splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!

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.

"Tears, idle tears"

TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

The Swallow's Message

O SWALLOW, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,

And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.

O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.