Of harps playing unto Love to unclose The pale gates of sunrise?
When all things repose, do you alone Awake to hear the sweet harps play To Love before him on his way, And the night wind answering in antiphon Till night is overgone?
Play on, invisible harps, unto Love, Whose way in heaven is aglow At that hour when soft lights come and go, Soft sweet music in the air above And in the earth below.
IV
When the shy star goes forth in heaven All maidenly, disconsolate, Hear you amid the drowsy even
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew
And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery
When he at eventide is calling.
Nor muse: Who may this singer be Whose song about my heart is falling?
Know you by this, the lover’s chant, ‘Tis I that am your visitant.
V
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair,
I hear you singing
A merry air.
My book was closed,
I read no more,
Watching the fire dance
On the floor.
I have left my book,
I have left my room, For I heard you singing
Through the gloom.
Singing and singing
A merry air,
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair.
VI
I would in that sweet bosom be
(O sweet it is and fair it is!) Where no rude wind might visit me.
Because of sad austerities I would in that sweet bosom be.
I would be ever in that heart
(O soft I knock and soft entreat her!) Where only peace might be my part.
Austerities were all the sweeter So I were ever in that heart.
VII
My love is in a light attire
Among the apple-trees, Where the gay winds do most desire To run in companies.
There, where the gay winds stay to woo The young leaves as they pass, My love goes slowly, bending to
Her shadow on the grass;
And where the sky’s a pale blue cup Over the laughing land, My love goes lightly, holding up Her dress with dainty hand.
VIII
Who goes amid the green wood
With springtide all adorning her?
Who goes amid the merry green wood To make it merrier?
Who passes in the sunlight
By ways that know the light footfall?
Who passes in the sweet sunlight With mien so virginal?
The ways of all the woodland
Gleam with a soft and golden fire— For whom does all the sunny woodland Carry so brave attire?
O, it is for my true love
The woods their rich apparel wear— O, it is for my own true love,
That is so young and fair.
IX
Winds of May, that dance on the sea, Dancing a ring-around in glee
From furrow to furrow, while overhead The foam flies up to be garlanded, In silvery arches spanning the air, Saw you my true love anywhere?
Welladay! Welladay!
For the winds of May!
Love is unhappy when love is away!
X
Bright cap and streamers,
He sings in the hollow: Come follow, come follow, All you that love.
Leave dreams to the dreamers
That will not after, That song and laughter Do nothing move.
With ribbons streaming
He sings the bolder; In troop at his shoulder The wild bees hum.
And the time of dreaming
Dreams is over—
As lover to lover, Sweetheart, I come.
XI
Bid adieu, adieu, adieu,
Bid adieu to girlish days, Happy Love is come to woo
Thee and woo thy girlish ways— The zone that doth become thee fair, The snood upon thy yellow hair,
When thou hast heard his name upon The bugles of the cherubim Begin thou softly to unzone
Thy girlish bosom unto him And softly to undo the snood
That is the sign of maidenhood.
XII
What counsel has the hooded moon Put in thy heart, my shyly sweet, Of Love in ancient plenilune,
Glory and stars beneath his feet— A sage that is but kith and kin
With the comedian Capuchin?
Believe me rather that am wise
In disregard of the divine, A glory kindles in those eyes
Trembles to starlight. Mine, O Mine!
No more be tears in moon or mist For thee, sweet sentimentalist.
XIII
Go seek her out all courteously, And say I come,
Wind of spices whose song is ever Epithalamium.
O, hurry over the dark lands
And run upon the sea For seas and lands shall not divide us My love and me.
Now, wind, of your good courtesy I pray you go,
And come into her little garden
And sing at her window; Singing: The bridal wind is blowing For Love is at his noon; And soon will your true love be with you, Soon, O soon.
XIV
My dove, my beautiful one,
Arise, arise!
The night-dew lies Upon my lips and eyes.
The odorous winds are weaving
A music of sighs: Arise, arise,
My dove, my beautiful one!
I wait by the cedar tree,
My sister, my love, White breast of the dove, My breast shall be your bed.
The