RUTH.

43

RUTH.

HE stood breast-high amid the corn,

SHE

Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun,

Who many a glowing kiss had won.

In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.

"Sure," I said, "Heaven did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home."

THOMAS HOOD.

HOW MANY TIMES.

HOW many times do I love thee, dear?

Tell me how many thoughts there be
In the atmosphere

Of a new-fallen year,

Whose white and sable hours appear
The latest flake of Eternity:
So many times do I love thee, dear.

How many times do I love, again?
'Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain

Of the evening rain,

Unravelled from the tumbling main,

And threading the eye of a yellow star:
So many times do I love, again.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

ASK ME NO MORE.

ASK me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the

shape,

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But, O too fond, when have I answered thee? Ask me no more.

KISSING HER HAIR.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye :

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream, and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

45

KISSING HER HAIR.

KISSING her hair, I sat against her feet:

and unwove it, wound and found it

sweet;

Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,
Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim skies;
With her own tresses bound, and found her fair,
Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea:

What pain could get between my face and hers? What new sweet thing would Love not relish worse? Unless perhaps white death has kissed me there,

Kissing her hair.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED.

NE word is too often profaned

ONE

For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdain'd

For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

"LOVE DOTH TO HER EYES REPAIR.”

Translated from Rückert.

HY ask of others what they cannot say,

WHY

Others, who for thy good have little care? Come close, dear friend, and learn a better way;

Look in my eyes, and read my story there!

HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD.

47

Trust not thine own proud wit; 't is idle dreaming!
The common gossip of the street forbear;
Nor even trust my acts or surface seeming:
Ask only of my eyes; my truth is there.

My lips refuse an answer to thy boldness;
Or with false, cruel words deny thy prayer,
Believe them not, I hate them for their coldness!
Look in my eyes; my love is written there.

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD.1

A

WEEK ago; and I am almost glad

to have him now gone for this little while, that I may think of him and tell myself what to be his means, now that I am his, and know if mine is love enough for him, and make myself believe it all is true.

A week ago; and it seems like a life, and I have not yet learned to know myself: I am so other than I was, so strange, grown younger and grown older all in one; and I am not so sad and not so gay; and I think nothing, only hear him think.

And did I love him from the day we met? but I more gladly danced with some one else

1 Parts of a poem. The peculiar printing is preserved.