Winifreda 1221 WINIFREDA AWAY! let naught to love displeasing, What though no grants of royal donors With pompous titles grace our blood, Our name, while virtue thus we tender, What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, Still shall each kind returning season Through youth and age, in love excelling, How should I love the pretty creatures, And when with envy time transported And I'll go wooing in my boys. Unknown AN OLD MAN'S IDYL By the waters of Life we sat together, When skies were purple and breath was praise, When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds, And the birds kept tune to the songs which ran Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards, And trees with voices æolian. By the rivers of Life we walked together, And lighter than any linnet's feather A sound that seemed like a marriage chime. In the gardens of Life we strayed together, In the meadows of Life we strayed together, And under the benison of the Father Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and fro; And the cowslip, hearing our low replies, Broidered fairer the emerald banks, And glad tears shone in the daisy's eyes, And the timid violet glistened thanks. Who was with us, and what was round us, Neither myself nor my darling guessed; Only we knew that something crowned us Out from the heavens with crowns of rest: The Poet's Song to His Wife 1223 Only we knew that something bright Lingered lovingly where we stood, Clothed with the incandescent light Oh, the riches Love doth inherit! Into sanctities rare and strange! Laugh at the footsteps of decay. Harms of the world have come unto us, And we hear the tread of the years move by, But my darling does not fear to die, So we sit by our household fires together, Then it was balmy, sunny weather, And now the valleys are laid in snow; Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, The wind blows cold,-'tis growing late; Well, well! we have garnered all our sheaves, I and my darling, and we wait. Richard Realf [1834-1878] THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE How many summers, love, Have I been thine? Time, like the winged wind To count the hours. Some weight of thought, though loth, On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears,- -a soft regret For joys scarce known; Sweet looks we half forget; All else is flown! Ah!-With what thankless heart I mourn and sing! Look, where our children start, Like sudden Spring! With tongues all sweet and low, Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and Time! Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874] JOHN ANDERSON JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, Your bonnie brow was brent; Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo, John, To Mary Now we maun totter down, John, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. 1225 Robert Burns [1759-1796] TO MARY "THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed, With that first ring I married Youth, Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure, For why?--They show me every hour, Samuel Bishop [1731-1795] |