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Their lines into the brook they launch;
's delicate complexion :
That question'd his affection !
Your baited snares may capture.
In sentimental rapture.
Upon the lover's shoulder;
The Poet your beholder.
It were a pleasant calling.
And never heed its brawling.
THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY
HE rose upon my balcony the morning air
Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek
is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.
The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood
ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were
blowing keen. And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.
Thus each performs his part, Mamma: the birds have
found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to
dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which
wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason
RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS
“Quand vous serez bien vieille, le soir à la chandelle
Assise auprès du feu devisant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, Ronsard m'a célébré du temps que j'étois belle.”
OME winter night, shut snugly in
Beside the fagot in the hall,
I think I see you sit and spin,
Old days come back to memory;
A poet sang of me!”
Though tired and sleepy ever so,
And longs the history to know. And, as the piteous tale is said,
Of lady cold and lover true, Each, musing, carries it to bed,
And sighs and envies you !
“Our lady's old and feeble now,”
They 'll say; "she once was fresh and fair, And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow,
And heartless left him to despair: The lover lies in silent earth,
No kindly mate the lady cheers; She sits beside a lonely hearth, With threescore and ten years !"
Ah ! dreary thoughts and dreams are those,
But wherefore yield me to despair, While yet the poet's bosom glows,
While yet the dame is peerless fair! Sweet lady mine! while yet 't is time
Requite my passion and my truth, And gather in their blushing prime
The roses of your youth!
My lady comes at last,
And hastening hither,
-she's past — May heaven go with her!
Kneel, undisturb’d, fair Saint!
Meekly and duly;