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The King's Ballad

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THE FOUR WINDS

WIND of the North,

Wind of the Norland snows,

Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars-
Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,

And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,
And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice,
But go not near my love.

Wind of the West,

Wind of the few, far clouds,

Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands→→
Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,
And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,
And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,
But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East,

Wind of the sunrise seas,

Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains-
Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,
And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars,
And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves,
Yet keep thou from my love.

But thou, sweet wind!

Wind of the fragrant South,

Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose!—
Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes

And flowering forests come with dewy wings,

And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss

The low mound where she lies.

Charles Henry Lüders [1858–1891]

THE KING'S BALLAD

Good my King, in your garden close,

(Hark to the thrush's trilling) Why so sad when the maiden rose

Love at your feet is spilling?

Golden the air and honey-sweet, Sapphire the sky, it is not meet Sorrowful faces should flowers greet, (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

All alone walks the King to-day.
(Hark to the thrush's trilling)
Far from his throne he steals away
Loneness and quiet willing.

Roses and tulips and lilies fair
Smile for his pleasure everywhere,
Yet of their joyance he takes no share,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling).

Ladies wait in the palace, Sire,

(Hark to the thrush's trilling)

Red and white for the king's desire,
Love-warm and sweet and thrilling;

Breasts of moonshine and hair of night,
Glances amorous, soft and bright,
Nothing is lacking for your delight,

(Hark to the thrush's trilling).

Kneels the King in a grassy place,

(Hark to the thrush's trilling)

Little flowers under his face

With his warm tears are filling.

Says the King, "Here my heart lies dead

Where my fair love is buried,

Would I were lying here instead!"

(Hark to the thrush's trilling)..

Joyce Kilmer (1886

HELIOTROPE

AMID the chapel's chequered gloom

She laughed with Dora and with Flora, And chattered in the lecture-room,—

That saucy little sophomora!

Heliotrope

Yet while, as in her other schools,
She was a privileged transgressor,
She never broke the simple rules
Of one particular professor.

But when he spoke of varied lore,
Paroxytones and modes potential,
She listened with a face that wore
A look half fond, half reverential.
To her, that earnest voice was sweet,
And, though her love had no confessor,
Her girlish heart lay at the feet

Of that particular professor.

And he had learned, among his books
That held the lore of ages olden,
To watch those ever-changing looks,
The wistful eyes, the tresses golden,
That stirred his pulse with passion's pain
And thrilled his soul with soft desire, -
And bade fond youth return again,
Crowned with its coronet of fire.

Her sunny smile, her winsome ways,
Were more to him than all his knowledge,
And she preferred his words of praise
To all the honors of the college.
Yet "What am foolish I to him?"

She whispered to her heart's confessor.
"She thinks me old and gray and grim,"
In silence pondered the professor.

Yet once when Christmas bells were rung
Above ten thousand solemn churches,
And swelling anthems grandly sung

Pealed through the dim cathedral arches,—
Ere home returning, filled with hope,
Softly she stole by gate and gable,

And a sweet spray of heliotrope

Left on his littered study-table.

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Nor came she more from day to day
Like sunshine through the shadows rifting:
Above her grave, far, far away,

The ever-silent snows were drifting;

And those who mourned her winsome face
Found in its stead a swift successor

And loved another in her place

All, save the silent old professor.

But, in the tender twilight gray,
Shut from the sight of carping critic,
His lonely thoughts would often stray
From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic,
Bidding the ghost of vanished hope
Mock with its past the sad possessor

Of the dead spray of heliotrope

That once she gave the old professor.
Harry Thurston Peck [1856-1914]

"LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"

LYDIA is gone this many a year,

Yet when the lilacs stir,

In the old gardens far or near,
This house is full of her.

They climb the twisted chamber stair;
Her picture haunts the room;

On the carved shelf beneath it there,
They heap the purple bloom.

A ghost so long has Lydia been,
Her cloak upon the wall,
Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,

Seems not her cloak at all.

The book, the box on mantle laid,
The shells in a pale row,

Are those of some dim little maid,

A thousand years ago.

Memories

And yet the house is full of her;

She goes and comes again;

And longings thrill, and memories stir,
Like lilacs in the rain.

Out in their yards the neighbors walk,
Among the blossoms tall;

Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk,

Of Lydia not at all.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856

AFTER

Он, the littles that remain!

Scent of mint out in the lane;

Flare of window, sound of bees;-
These, but these.

Three times sitting down to bread;
One time climbing up to bed;
Table-setting o'er and o'er;
Drying herbs for winter's store;
This thing; that thing;-nothing more.

But just now out in the lane,

Oh, the scent of mint was plain!

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856

MEMORIES

Of my ould loves, of their ould ways,
I sit an' think, these bitther days.

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(I've kissed-'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhymeMore mouths than one in my mad time!)

Of their soft ways an' words I dream,
But far off now, in faith, they seem.

Wid betther lives, wid betther men,
They've all long taken up again!

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