Oh, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care; Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair; Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear, That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near. And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe, How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go; Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy blade Had e’er been bent by Trouble’s feet, and Love thy pillow made. For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime, And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty’s happy clime; And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood, And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good. And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain, And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain-- Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind, Oh who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find? Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight! Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night! The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to see Herself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee. SONG O the voice of woman’s love! What a bosom-stirring word! Was a sweeter ever uttered, Was a dearer ever heard, Than woman’s love? How it melts upon the ear, How it nourishes the heart! Cold, ah! cold, must his appear, Who hath never shared a part Of woman’s love. ’Tis pleasure to the mourner, ’Tis freedom to the thrall; The pilgrimage of many, And resting place of all, Is woman’s love. ’Tis the gem of beauty’s birth, It competes with joys above; What were angels upon earth, If without a woman’s love-- A woman’s love? LOVE Love, though it is not chill and cold, But burning like eternal fire, Is yet not of approaches bold, Which gay dramatic tastes admire. Oh! timid love, more fond than free, In daring song is ill pourtrayed, Where, as in war, the devotee By valour wins each captive maid;-- Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee, As they could tell each other’s mind; Where ruby lips are kissed as free, As flowers are by the summer wind. No! gentle love, that timid dream, With hopes and fears at foil and play, Works like a skiff against the stream, And thinking most finds least to say. It lives in blushes and in sighs, In hopes for which no words are found; Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes, The tongue is left without a sound. The pert and forward things that dare Their talk in every maiden’s ear, Feel no more than their shadows there-- Mere things of form, with nought of fear.