A boy was standing on the bridge
Any girl would meet there.
As I went over Woody Knob
A youth was coming up the hill
Any maid would follow.
Then in I turned at my own gate,—
And nothing to be sad for—
To such a man as any WIFE
Would pass a pretty lad for.
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Women have loved before as I love now;
Of Irish waters by a Cornish prowOr Trojan waters by a Spartan mastMuch to their cost invaded—here and there,Hunting the amorous line, skimming the rest,I find some woman bearing as I bearLove like a burning city in the breast.I think however that of all aliveI only in such utter, ancient wayDo suffer love; in me…
Oh, my belovèd, have you thought of this:
More cruel than Death, will tear you from my kiss,And make you old, and leave me in my prime?How you and I, who scale together yetA little while the sweet, immortal heightNo pilgrim may remember or forget,As sure as the world turns, some granite nightShall lie awake and know the gracious flameGone out forever on…
What should I be but a prophet and a liar,
Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter?And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the…
I, being born a woman and distressed
Am urged by your propinquity to findYour person fair, and feel a certain zestTo bear your body’s weight upon my breast:So subtly is the fume of life designed,To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,And leave me once again undone, possessed.Think not for this, however, the poor treasonOf my stout blood against my staggering brain,I…
I said,—for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,—
bed;But I’ll never leave my pillow, though there be someAs would let him in—and take him in with tears!’ I said.I lay,—for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,—I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep;And he found me at my window with my big cloak on,All sorry…
The trees along this city street,
Would make a sound as thin and sweetAs trees in country lanes.And people standing in their shadeOut of a shower, undoubtedlyWould hear such music as is madeUpon a country tree.Oh, little leaves that are so dumbAgainst the shrieking city air,I watch you when the wind has come,—I know what sound is there.