Ah! dear one, you've been dead so long, -
How long until we meet again,

Where hours may never lose their song

Nor flowers forget the rain

In glad noonlight that shall never wane?
Alas, so long!

Ah! shall it be then Spring weather,
And ah! shall we be young together?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

20

RIDING TOGETHER

FOR many, many days together
The wind blew steady from the East;
For many days hot grew the weather,
About the time of our Lady's feast.

For many days we rode together,

Yet we met neither friend nor foe;
Hotter and clearer grew the weather,
Steadily did the East wind blow.

We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,
Clear-cut, with shadows very black,

As freely we rode on together

With helms unlaced and bridles slack.

And often as we rode together,

We, looking down the green-bank'd stream,

Saw flowers in the sunny weather,

15

And saw the bubble-making bream.

And in the night lay down together,

And hung above our heads the rood,
Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather,
The while the moon did watch the wood.

20

Our spears stood bright and thick together,
Straight out the banners stream'd behind,
As we gallop'd on in sunny weather,

With faces turn'd toward the wind.

Down sank our threescore spears together,
As thick as we saw the pagans ride;
His eager face in the clear fresh weather,
Shone out that last time by my side.

Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together,
It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears,
Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather,
The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.

There, as we roll'd and writhed together,

I threw my arms above my head,

2

30

For close by my side, in the lovely weather,
I saw him reel and fall back dead.

35

I and the slayer met together,

He waited the death-stroke there in his place, With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather, Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face.

Madly I fought as we fought together;

In vain the little Christian band
The pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather,
The river drowns low-lying land.

They bound my blood-stain'd hands together,

They bound his corpse to nod by my side: Then on we rode, in the bright March weather, With clash of cymbals did we ride.

40

45

We ride no more, no more together;

My prison-bars are thick and strong,

I take no heed of any weather,

The sweet Saints grant I live not long.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

From

ATALANTA IN CALYDON

WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,

The mother of months in meadow or plain

Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;

And the brown bright nightingale amorous

Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,
Maiden most perfect, lady of light,

With a noise of winds and many rivers,

With a clamor of waters, and with might;

Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet,

Over the splendor and speed of thy feet;

For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,
Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

15

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,

Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? Oh that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!

For the stars and the winds are unto her

As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;

For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,

And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.

20

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes,
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot,
The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit;
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire,
And the oat is heard above the lyre,
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

25

30

35

40

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Manad and the Bassarid;

And soft as lips that laugh and hide,

45

The laughing leaves of the trees divide,

And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows, hiding her eyes;
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare

50

Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

55

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

A MATCH

IF love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death,

We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow

And laughs of maid and boy;

5

10

15

20

25

30