Bits and Pieces

 Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears:
    [Yet slower, yet; O faintly,]1 gentle springs:
 List to the heavy part the music bears,
    Woe weeps out her [division]2 when she sings.
     Droop herbs and flowers,
     Fall grief in showers,
     Our [beauties are]3 not ours;
      [O, I could still,]4
 Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
     [Drop, drop, drop, drop,]5
    Since [nature's]6 pride is, now, a withered daffodil.

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'Twas a new feeling - something more
Than we had dared to own before,
Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassioned touch - 
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not;
But whispered o'er my burning brow,
'Oh, do you doubt I love you now?'
Sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I pressed it closer, closer still,
Though gently bid not;
Till - oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
And yet, who did not.

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Merry, merry sparrow!
Under leaves so green
A happy blossom
Sees you, swift as arrow,
Seek your cradle narrow,
Near my bosom.

Pretty, pretty robin!
Under leaves so green
A happy blossom
Hears you sobbing, sobbing,
Pretty, pretty robin,
Near my bosom.

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[Sweetheart, do]1 not love too long:
I loved long and long, 
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song. 

All through the years of our youth
Neither could have known 
Their own thought from the other's,
We were so much at one. 

But O, in a minute [she]2 changed --
O do not love too long, 
Or [you will]3 grow out of fashion
Like an old song.

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I heard a linnet courting
   His lady in the spring:
His mates were idly sporting,
   Nor stayed to hear him sing
         His song of love. --
I fear my speech distorting
         His tender love.

The phrases of his pleading
   Were full of young delight;
And she that gave him heeding
   Interpreted aright
         His gay, sweet notes, --
So sadly marred in the reading, --
         His tender notes.

And when he ceased, the hearer
   Awaited the refrain,
Till swiftly perching nearer
   He sang his song again,
         His pretty song: --
Would that my verse spake clearer
         His tender song!

Ye happy, airy creatures!
   That in the merry spring
Think not of what misfeatures
   Or cares the year may bring;
         But unto love
Resign your simple natures,
         To tender love.