Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourne And were safe on the hills of the blest, Not more strange they might show to us drawn from below, Come up from long dolour to rest. But the peace of that vale would be thine love and mine, And sweeter the air than of yore, And this life we have led as a dream that is fled Might appear to our thought evermore. 'Was it life, was it life?' we might say ''twas scarce life,' 'Was it love? 'twas scarce love,' looking down, 'Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one day Low lying on Wendover town. THE LOVER PLEADS. I. When I had guineas many a one Nought else I lackèd 'neath the sun, I had two eyes the bluest seen, A perfect shape, a gracious mien, I had a voice might charm the bale From a two days widowed nightingale, And if you ask how this I know I had a love who told me so. The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth, Her foot turns, his day darkeneth. Love unkind, O can it be 'T was your foot false did turn from me. II. The gear is gone, the red gold spent, Favour and beauty with them went, Eyes take the veil, their shining done, Not fair to him is fair to none, Sweet as a bee's bag 'twas to taste His praise. O honey run to waste, He loved not! spoiled is all my way In the spoiling of that yesterday. The shadows wax, the low light alters, Gold west fades, and false heart falters. The pity of it!--Love's a rover, The last word said, and all over. SONG IN THREE PARTS. I. The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather, 'O most sweet wear; Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me, Four am I fair,' Quoth the brown bee 'In thy white wear Four thou art fair. A mystery Of honeyed snow In scented air The bee lines flow Straight unto thee. Great boon and bliss All pure I wis, And sweet to grow Ay, so to give That many live. Now as for me, I,' quoth the bee, 'Have not to give, Through long hours sunny Gathering I live: Aye debonair Sailing sweet air After my fare, Bee-bread and honey. In thy deep coombe, O thou white broom, Where no leaves shake, Brake, Bent nor clover, I a glad rover, Thy calms partake, While winds of might From height to height Go bodily over. Till slanteth light, And up the rise Thy shadow lies, A shadow of white, A beauty-lender Pathetic, tender. Short is thy day? Answer with 'Nay,' Longer the hours That wear thy flowers Than all dull, cold Years manifold That gift withhold. A long liver, O honey-giver, Thou by all showing Art made, bestowing, I envy not Thy greater lot, Nor thy white wear. But, as for me, I,' quoth the bee, 'Never am fair.' II. The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding Deeply and long, 'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over, O lost my song.'