Canst thou not wait for Love one flying hour

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.

A sheep in sheep's clothing.

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.

The high-voiced children trebled clear and cold.

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 …