Love's Calendar

We sometimes supped on dew-berries,
Or slept among the hay,

But oft the farmers' wives at eve

Came out to hear us play;

The rare old songs, the dear old tunes,

We could not starve for long

While my man had his violin,

And I my sweet love-song,

The world has aye gone well with us

Old man since we were one,

Our homeless wandering down the lanes

It long ago was done.

But those who wait for gold or gear,

For houses or for kine,

Till youth's sweet spring grows brown and sere,

And love and beauty tine,

Will never know the joy of hearts

That met without a fear,

When you had but your violin

And I a song, my dear.

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Mary Kyle Dallas [1830-1897]

LOVE'S CALENDAR

THAT gusty spring, each afternoon
By the ivied cot I passed,
And noted at that lattice soon

Her fair face downward cast;

Still in the same place seated there,,
So diligent, so very fair.

Oft-times I said I knew her not,
Yet that way round would go,
Until, when evenings lengthened out,
And bloomed the may-hedge row,
I met her by the wayside well,
Whose waters, maybe, broke the spell.

For, leaning on her pail, she prayed,
I'd lift it to her head.

So did I; but I'm much afraid

Some wasteful drops were shed,
And that we blushed, as face to face
Needs must we stand the shortest space.

Then when the sunset mellowed through
The ears of rustling grain,
When lattices wide open flew,
When ash-leaves fell like rain,
As well as I she knew the hour

At morn or eve I neared her bower.

And now that snow o'erlays the thatch,

Each starlit eve within

The door she waits, I raise the latch,

And kiss her lifted chin;

Nor do I think we've blushed again,

For Love hath made but one of twain.

William Bell Scott [1811-1890]

HOME

Two birds within one nest;

Two hearts within one breast;

Two spirits in one fair,

Firm league of love and prayer,

Together bound for aye, together blest.

An ear that waits to catch

A hand upon the latch;

A step that hastens its sweet rest to win;

A world of care without,

A world of strife shut out,

A world of love shut in.

Dora Greenwell (1821-1882)

TWO LOVERS

Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:

They leaned soft cheeks together there,

Mingled the dark and sunny hair,

And heard the wooing thrushes sing.

Two Lovers

O budding time!

O love's blest prime!

Two wedded from the portal stept:
The bells made happy carolings,
The air was soft as fanning wings,
White petals on the pathway slept.
O pure-eyed bride!

O tender pride!

Two faces o'er a cradle bent:

Two hands above the head were locked:

These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent.

O solemn hour!

O hidden power!

Two parents by the evening fire:
The red light fell about their knees
On heads that rose by slow degrees
Like buds upon the lily spire.
O patient life!

O tender strife!

The two still sat together there,

The red light shone about their knees;

But all the heads by slow degrees

Had gone

and left that lonely pair.

O voyage fast!"

O vanished past!

The red light shone upon the floor

And made the space between them wide;
They drew their chairs up side by side,

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Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!" O memories!

O past that is!

George Eliot [1819-1880]

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE

"SOMEWHERE," he mused, "its dear enchantments wait,

That land, so heavenly sweet;

Yet all the paths we follow, soon or late,

End in the desert's heat.

"And still it lures us to the eager quest,

And calls us day by day"

"But I," she said, her babe upon her breast,

"Some time," he sighed, "when youth and joy are spent,

Our feet the gates may win"—

"But I," she smiled, with eyes of deep content,

"But I have entered in."

Emily Huntington Miller [1833–

MY AIN WIFE

I WADNA gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see;

I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see;

A bonnier yet I've never seen,

A better canna be→→→

I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see!

O couthie is my ingle-cheek,
An' cheeric is my Jean;
I never see her angry look,

Nor hear her word on ane.
She's gude wi' a' the neebors roun'
An' aye gude wi' me-
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.

An' O her looks sae kindlie,

They melt my heart outright,

When o'er the baby at her breast

She hangs wi' fond delight;

The Irish Wife

She looks intill its bonnie face,

An' syne looks to me

I wadna gi'e my ain wife

For ony wife I see.

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Alexander Laing (1787-1857]

THE IRISH WIFE

I WOULD not give my Irish wife

For all the dames of the Saxon land;

I would not give my Irish wife
For the Queen of France's hand;
For she to me is dearer

Than castles strong, or lands, or life.
An outlaw-so I'm near her

To love till death my Irish wife.

O what would be this home of mine,
A ruined, hermit-haunted place,
But for the light that nightly shines
Upon its walls from Kathleen's face!
What comfort in a mine of gold,
What pleasure in a royal life,

If the heart within lay dead and cold,
If I could not wed my Irish wife?

I knew the law forbade the banns;
I knew my king abhorred her race;
Who never bent before their clans

Must bow before their ladies' grace.
Take all my forfeited domain,

I cannot wage with kinsmen strife: Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife.

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes,

My heaven by day, my stars by night;

And twin-like truth and fondness lies

Within her swelling bosom white.