Good morrow to the golden morning,
  Good morrow to the world’s delight—­
I’ve come to bless thy life’s beginning,
  Since it makes my own so bright!

I have brought no roses, sweetest,
  I could find no flowers, dear,—­
It was when all sweets were over
  Thou wert born to bless the year.

But I’ve brought thee jewels, dearest,
  In thy bonny locks to shine,—­
And if love shows in their glances,
  They have learn’d that look of mine!

I LOVE THEE.

I love thee—­I love thee! 
  ’Tis all that I can say;—­
It is my vision in the night,
  My dreaming in the day;
The very echo of my heart,
  The blessing when I pray: 
I love thee—­I love thee! 
  Is all that I can say.

I love thee—­I love thee! 
  Is ever on my tongue;
In all my proudest poesy
  That chorus still is sung;
It is the verdict of my eyes,
  Amidst the gay and young: 
I love thee—­I love thee! 
  A thousand maids among.

I love thee—­I love thee! 
  Thy bright hazel glance,
The mellow lute upon those lips,
  Whose tender tones entrance;
But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs
  That still these words enhance,
I love thee—­I love thee! 
  Whatever be thy chance.

LINES.

Let us make a leap, my dear,
In our love, of many a year,
And date it very far away,
On a bright clear summer day,
When the heart was like a sun
To itself, and falsehood none;
And the rosy lips a part
Of the very loving heart,
And the shining of the eye
But a sign to know it by;—­
When my faults were all forgiven,
And my life deserved of Heaven. 
Dearest, let us reckon so,
And love for all that long ago;
Each absence count a year complete,
And keep a birthday when we meet.

FALSE POETS AND TRUE.

TO WORDSWORTH.

Look how the lark soars upward and is gone,
Turning a spirit as he nears the sky! 
His voice is heard, but body there is none
To fix the vague excursions of the eye. 
So, poets’ songs are with us, tho’ they die
Obscured, and hid by death’s oblivious shroud,
And Earth inherits the rich melody
Like raining music from the morning cloud. 
Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud
Their voices reach us through the lapse of space: 
The noisy day is deafen’d by a crowd
Of undistinguished birds, a twittering race;
But only lark and nightingale forlorn
Fill up the silences of night and morn.

THE TWO SWANS.

A FAIRY TALE.

I.