But I this day A song will make Only for joy And my sweet love’s sake: And will employ No sorrowful thing For making of it,-- That song, I’ll sing. But lovely laughter Of singing thrushes When dawn has broken And heaven flushes, Shall be the token Of one whom days Nor death can rob Of joyous praise. SONG And in the evening when I walked apart For joy of that I carry in my heart, The song I made brave thrushes did complete, Shouting, “O, pretty Joy!” and “Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!” This is my glory, this the crown of me: That I hold joy of my love, and she of me; And though my song be but a breath of air, Yet is it greater than death and all despair. For howso poor and of what base estate I be, this love shall make me proud and great. And howso deep in care I lie, there are words Shall build my heart a nest of singing birds. IDENTITY I am the blood that burns, The flesh that dies, The haunted heart that turns To Paradise, The soul that laugheth low And whispereth There are sweet things to know After--Death. Such powers am I, and more Both good and bad; Nor all the learnéd lore Solomon had Could ill and good dissever. Yet this is true: Naught’s me that doth not ever Cleave to you. JUNE April was in your making--youth of the year, Wild-blooded, beautiful! And May with flowers And showers agleam went into you, my dear. But you are June. Deep shadows, silver dew, Red roses, and the nightingale’s delight: White moonlight the essential soul of you. And sometimes as I watch you walk arrayed In beauty of that month, a foolish fear Comes, dear, into my heart: I am afraid That you being one with shadow-bars and roses, Birds and wild scents of June, with these will fly And I be left alone when Summer closes Her pageantry! SONNET That Death shall take and slay me matters not In truth: for better men are buried under, And--tut, “what can’t be cured must be endured”! But I am wild with hate, pray devil’s thunder May fall on Death though heaven itself glow hot, Hell-like, and stars be lighted stubble, and worlds Like birds drop blinded by the bloody light! O, such a bonfire do I wish for Death Or ever his insolent envy of sweet breath Should touch and soil the body of delight-- The singing flame of fragrant holy fire Which showed to me the meaning of the spring And every lovely tune musicians bring Out of the womb of innermost desire! SONNET But now since Death hath certain date, I fling, Strong in this manhood for a little space, Gayest defiance in his wrinkled face, And mock that envious shadowy old king: Scyther of flowers, plucker of everything In beauty fair upgrowing; so the place Thereof knoweth no more the golden grace That was the pride and savour of its spring.