Seventeen songs

Love's a flower, is born and broken,
Plucked apace — and hugged apart.
Evening comes, it clings — poor token —
Dead and dry, on lover's heart.

Love's the rhyme of a summer minute
Woven close like hum of flies ; 
Sob of wind, and meaning in it 
Dies away, as summer dies. 

Love's a shimmery morning bubble
Puffed all gay from pipe of noon ; 
Spun aloft on breath of trouble —
Bursts in air — is gone — too soon !

June among the bay and roses
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Wind, wind — heather gipsy,
Whistling in my tree! 
All the heart of me is tipsy
On the sound of thee.
Sweet with scent of clover
Salt with breath of sea.
Wind, wind — wayman lover,
Whistling in my tree!

When Love is young, she needs no staff,
No teaching how to lure and laugh;
When Love is young, she swoons away —
So fiery sweet is Love in May!

When Love is old, she has no toys,
No burning hours, no rainbow joys;
When Love is old, she's like a dove —
Yet strong as death is winter Love!

O Magpie, lonely flying —
What do you bring to me? 
Two for joy, and one for sorrow!
Loved to-day, is lost to-morrow!
O Magpie, flying, flying —
What have you brought to me?

The cuckoo bird has long been dumb
And owls instead and flitting jars
Call out, call out for us to come,
My Love and me, to count the stars ; 
And into this wide orchard rove —
The whispering trees scarce give us room
That drop their petals on my Love
And me beneath the apple bloom

And each pale petal is alive
With dew of twilight from the sky,
Where all the stars hang in their hive.
That we've to count, my Love and I.
The boughs below, the boughs above,
They scatter, lest their twisted gloom
Should stay the counting of my Love
And me beneath the apple bloom.

And when the Mother Moon comes by
And puts the little stars to bed.
We count, my timid Love and I,
The pretty apple stars instead ; 
Until at last all lights remove,
And dark sleep dropping on the combe,
Fastens the eyelids of my Love
And me beneath the apple bloom.

I lie out here under a heather sod,
A moor-stone at my head ; the moor-winds play above.
I lie out here. ... In graveyards of their God
They would not bury desperate me who died for love.
I lie out here under the sun and moon;
Across me bearded ponies stride, the curlews cry.
I have no little tombstone screed, no : "Soon
To glory shall she rise!" But deathless peace have I!

Shure 'tis the first day of spring
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The clocks are chiming in my heart
Their cobweb chime;
Old murmurings of days that die,
The sob of things a-drifting by.
The clocks are chiming in my heart!

The stars have twinkled, and gone out —
Fair candles blown ! 
The hot desires burn low, and wan
Those ashy fires, that flamed anon.
The stars have twinkled, and gone out!

Old journeys travel in my head!
They come and go —
Forgotten smiles of stranger friends,
Sweet, weary miles, and sweeter ends.
Old journeys travel in my head!

The leaves are dropping from my tree!
Dead leaves and brown.
The vine-leaf ghosts make pale my brow;
For ever frosts and winter now.
The leaves are dropping from my tree!

Breath of spring!
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Love flew by! Young wedding day,
Peeping through her veil of dew,
Saw him, and her heart went fey —
His wings no shadows threw.

Love flew by! Young day was gone,
Owls were hooting — Whoo — to-whoo! 
Happy-wedded lay alone,
Who'd vowed that love was true. 

Love flies by, and drops a rose —
Drops a rose, a sprig of yew! 
Happy these — but ah! for those
Whose love has cried: Adieu!

Well, you sweet bird
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Straw in the street! 
My heart, oh! hearken —
Fate thrums its song of sorrow! 
The windows darken —
O God of all to-morrow!

Straw in the street! 
To wintry sleeping
Turns all our summer laughter.
The brooms are sweeping —
There's naught for me hereafter!

Daffodils and crocus
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When, every dawn, the homeless breeze
Creeps back to wake the sleeping trees,
The moon steals down and no one sees!

Yes! every morn, no watcher there,
She turns that face, once angel fair,
And smiles, as only harlots dare!

I saw her once, the insatiate moon.
Go stealing, coiffed with orange hood.
From Night, her lover, still in swoon —
All wanton she, who chaste was wooed!

By the side of me — the immortal Pan —
Lies the sweetest thing of the sea;
In her gown of brine,
With her breast to mine,
And her drowned dark hair lies she!

And her eyes that have looked on the fathomy weed,
So mournful are fixed on me:
  "I am thy slave, O Master, O Pan!
  And never shall more be free!"

But her smile — like the wine-red, shadowy sea, 
When the day slides past and down —
By the gods, it is tender death to me!
In its waters dark I drown! 
  "O slave of mine! Thou mystery
  Of smiling depths — I drown!" 

Oh! the Downs high to the cool sky; 
And the feel of the sun-warmed moss;
And each cardoon, like a full moon,
Fairy-spun of the thistle floss;
And the beech grove, and a wood-dove,
And the trail where the shepherds pass;
And the lark's song, and the wind-song,
And the scent of the parching grass!