Christina Songs

Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing;

Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;

 ... 

"Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."

Young Love lies sleeping
 In May-time of the year,
Among the lilies,
 Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
 White doves come building there;
And round about him
 The May-bushes are white.

Soft moss the pillow
 For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
 Upon the heavy eyes:
There winds and waters
 Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
 The longest in the skies.

Young Love lies dreaming;
 But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
 On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
 Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
 Or song of cherished lips.

Burn odours round him
 To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
 Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
 The sights are not so fair,
And song and silence
 Are not like these below.

Young Love lies dreaming
 Till summer days are gone,-
Dreaming and drowsing
 Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
 Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
 Unutterably deep.

Him perfect music
 Doth hush unto his rest,
And thro' the pauses
 The perfect silence calms:
Oh poor the voices
 Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
 Between her stately palms.

Young Love lies drowsing
 Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
 Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
 With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
 To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains
 Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
 With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
 Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
 Return to nestle here.

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years. 

 ... 

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago!

My heart is like a singing bird
  Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple tree
  Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
  That paddles in a purple sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
  Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
  Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
  And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
  In leaves and silver fleur-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
  Is come, my love, is come to me.