Edmund Gosse

Ah! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme! The men of old who sang were great at heart, Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose.

In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose, Arnaut, great master of the lore of love, First wrought sestines to win his lady’s heart.

Sophocles, the poet loved and feared, Whose mighty voice once called out of her lair The Dorian muse severe, with braided hair, Who loved the thyrsus and wild dances weird.

The enchanted silence of the hours of dew.

No wonder round those urns of mingled clays That Tuscan potters fashion’d in old days, And colour’d like the torrid earth ablaze,We find the little gods and loves portray’d, Through ancient forests wandering undismay’d, And fluting hymns …

The happy children! full of frank surprise, And sudden whims and innocent ecstasies; What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes!

I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair, Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer.

And see that girl, with pitcher on her head, And clean white apron on her gown of red,— Her even-song of love is but half-said:She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes; Her cheeks are redder than the wild blush-rose: They climb up where …

The music of the scythes that glide and leap, The young men whistling as their great arms sweep, And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep,The weary butterflies that droop their wings, The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings, And all …

What curled and scented sun-girls, almond-eyed, With lotos-blossoms in their hands and hair.

The high-voiced children trebled clear and cold.

Canst thou not wait for Love one flying hour O heart of little faith?

A sheep in sheep's clothing.