Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling black birds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair!
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild Evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave! Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
JENNY KISSED ME
Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in. Time, you thief! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I'm growing old, but add
We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied
We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed she had
Another morn than ours.
Her suffering ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close,
And breathed the long, long night away
In statue-like repose.
But when the sun in all his state
Illumed the eastern skies,
She passed through Glory's morning gate And walked in Paradise.
Nightingales warble about it, All night under blossom and star; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle cryeth afar;
The sun he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it, Oh, more, more, more!
Over the gray leagues of ocean The infinite yearneth alone; The forests with wandering emotion The thing they know not intone; Creation arose but to see it,
A million lamps in the blue;
But a lover he shall be it
If one sweet maid is true.
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free: Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the lovesick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone. Robert Herrick
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.
Here a solemn fast we keep,
While all beauty lies asleep;
Hush'd be all things, no noise here But the toning of a tear;
Or a sigh of such as bring Cowslips for her covering.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
The gray sea, and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves, that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed in the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross, till a farm appears: A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts, beating each to each.
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