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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.

[From Merlin and Vivien.]


In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,

Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers;

Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute,

And ever widening slowly silence all.

The little rift within the lover's lute

Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, That rotting inward, slowly moulders all.

It is not worth the keeping: let it go:

But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no.

And trust me not at all or all in all.

(From Maud.)

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone:

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad.

And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that
she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon: All night has the casement jessamine stirred

To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay.

When will the dancers leave her alone?

She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone,

And half to the rising day; Low on the sand and loud on the


The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, " The brief night


In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,

For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, "Forever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into
my blood,
As the music clashed in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on
to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have
left so sweet
That whenever a March wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet,

In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet

And the valleys of Paradise.

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