Moon-marketing

  Let’s go to market in the moon,
    And buy some dreams together,
  Slip on your little silver shoon,
    And don your cap and feather;
  No need of petticoat or stocking—­
  No one up there will think it shocking.

    Across the dew,
    Just I and you,
  With all the world behind us;
    Away from rules,
    Away from fools,
  Where nobody can find us.

  Two birthdays

  Your birthday, sweetheart, is my birthday too,
    For, had you not been born,
  I who began to live beholding you
    Up early as the morn,
  That day in June beside the rose-hung stream,
    Had never lived at all—­
  We stood, do you remember? in a dream
    There by the water-fall.

  You were as still as all the other flowers
    Under the morning’s spell;
  Sudden two lives were one, and all things “ours”—­
    How we can never tell. 
  Surely it had been fated long ago—­
    What else, dear, could we think? 
  It seemed that we had stood for ever so,
    There by the river’s brink.

  And all the days that followed seemed as days
    Lived side by side before,
  Strangely familiar all your looks and ways,
    The very frock you wore;
  Nothing seemed strange, yet all divinely new;
    Known to your finger tips,
  Yet filled with wonder every part of you,
    Your hair, your eyes, your lips.

  The wise in love say love was ever thus
    Through endless Time and Space,
  Heart linked to heart, beloved, as with us,
    Only one face—­one face—­
  Our own to love, however fair the rest;
    ’Tis so true lovers are,
  For ever breast to breast,
    On—­on—­from star to star.

  Song

  My eye upon your eyes—­
  So was I born,
  One far-off day in Paradise,
  A summer morn;
  I had not lived till then,
  But, wildered, went,
  Like other wandering men,
  Nor what Life meant
  Knew I till then.

  My hand within your hand—­
  So would I live,
  Nor would I ask to understand
  Why God did give
  Your loveliness to me,
  But I would pray
  Worthier of it to be,
  By night and day,
  Unworthy me!

  My heart upon your heart—­
  So would I die,
  I cannot think that God will part
  Us, you and I;
  The work he did undo,
  That summer morn;
  I lived, and would die too,
  Where I was born,
  Beloved, in you.

  The faithful lover

  All beauty is but thee in echo-shapes,
    No lovely thing but echoes some of thee,
  Vainly some touch of thy perfection apes,
    Sighing as fair as thou thyself to be;
  Therefore, be not disquieted that I
    On other forms turn oft my wandering gaze,
  Nor deem it anywise disloyalty: 
    Nay! ’tis the pious fervour of my eye,