WITHIN the sand of what far river lies The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love? What highest circle of the Heavens above Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes? And where is the rich sea whose coral vies With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough? What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof The fled soul lives in her cheeks' rosy guise?
What Parian marble that is loveliest, Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast? When drew she breath from the Sabaean glade? Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, Gardens, and glades Sabaean, all that be The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
MOONLIGHT. JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527-
1555.
THE high Midnight was garlanding her head With many a shining star in shining skies, And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes, And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. Far in dim fields cicalas jargoned A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries; And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise, With pallor of the sad moon overspread.
Then came my lady to that lonely place, And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over; Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, And sweeter is the shadow than the light, Since night has made me such a happy lover.
LOVE IN MAY. PASSERAT, 1580.
OFF with sleep, love, up from bed, This fair morn; See, for our eyes the rosy red New dawn is born; Now that skies are glad and gay In this gracious month of May, Love me, sweet, Fill my joy in brimming measure, In this world he hath no pleasure, That will none of it.
Come, love, through the woods of spring, Come walk with me; Listen, the sweet birds jargoning From tree to tree. List and listen, over all Nightingale most musical That ceases never; Grief begone, and let us be For a space as glad as he; Time's flitting ever.
Old Time, that loves not lovers, wears Wings swift in flight; All our happy life he bears Far in the night. Old and wrinkled on a day, Sad and weary shall you say, 'Ah, fool was I, That took no pleasure in the grace Of the flower that from my face Time has seen die.'
Leave then sorrow, teen, and tears Till we be old; Young we are, and of our years Till youth be cold Pluck the flower; while spring is gay In this happy month of May, Love me, love; Fill our joy in brimming measure; In this world he hath no pleasure That will none thereof.
