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Chapter 137 : ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?We see them not--we cannot hear The music of thei

ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?

We see them not--we cannot hear The music of their wing-- Yet know we that they sojourn near, The Angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast, From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel's touch hath blest Is meet, my love, for thee!

Robert Stephen Hawker [1803-1875]

MAIDEN EYES

You never bade me hope, 'tis true; I asked you not to swear: But I looked in those eyes of blue, And read a promise there.

The vow should bind, with maiden sighs That maiden lips have spoken: But that which looks from maiden eyes Should last of all be broken.

Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]

HALLOWED PLACES

I pa.s.s my days among the quiet places Made sacred by your feet.

The air is cool in the fresh woodland s.p.a.ces, The meadows very sweet.

The sunset fills the wide sky with its splendor, The glad birds greet the night; I stop and listen for a voice strong, tender, I wait those dear eyes' light.

You are the heart of every gleam of glory, Your presence fills the air, About you gathers all the fair year's story; I read you everywhere.

Alice Freeman Palmer [1855-1902]

THE LADY'S "YES"

"Yes," I answered you last night; "No," this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

When the viols played their best, Lamps above, and laughs below, Love me sounded like a jest, Fit for yes or fit for no.

Call me false or call me free, Vow, whatever light may s.h.i.+ne,-- No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both; Time to dance is not to woo; Wooing light makes fickle troth, Scorn of me recoils on you.

Learn to win a lady's faith n.o.bly, as the thing is high, Bravely, as for life and death, With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words, Pure from courts.h.i.+p's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore; And her yes, once said to you, SHALL be Yes for evermore.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

SONG From "The Miller's Daughter"

It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear; For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest; And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom With her laughter or her sighs; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

LILIAN

Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Clasps her tiny hand above me, Laughing all she can; She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian.

When my pa.s.sion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs, She, looking through and through me, Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks: So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gathered wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies.

Prithee weep, May Lilian!

Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian: Through my very heart it thrilleth, When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter thrilleth: Prithee weep, May Lilian!

Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

BUGLE SONG From "The Princess"

The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.