Coyness is not, nor bear they thought Save of a shining gracious flow, All natural joys are temperate sought, For calm desire there they know, A fire promiscuous, languorous, kind; They scorn all fiercer lusts and quarrels, Nor blow about on anger's wind, Nor burn with love, nor rust with morals. Folk in the far unfading city, Burning with lusts my senses are, I am torn with love and shame and pity, Be to my heart a guiding star Wise youths and maidens in the sun, With eyes that charm and lips that sing, And gentle arms that rippling run, Shed on my heart your endless spring! THE FUGITIVE Flying his hair and his eyes averse, Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. How could we clear his charms rehearse? Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. High on a down we found him last, Shy as a hare, he fled as fast; How could we clasp him or ever he passed? Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. How could we cling to his limbs that shone, Ravish his cheeks' red gonfalon, Or the wild-skin cloak that he had on? Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. For the wind of his feet still straightly shaping, He loosed at our breasts from his eyes escaping One crooked swift glance like a javelin leaping. Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. And his feet passed over the sunset land From the place forlorn where a forlorn band Watching him flying we still did stand. Fleet are his feet and his heart apart. Vanishing now who would not stay To the blue hills on the verge of day. O soft! soft! Music play, Fading away, (Fleet are his feet And his heart apart) Fading away. IN AN ORCHARD Airy and quick and wise In the shed light of the sun, You clasp with friendly eyes The thoughts from mine that run. But something breaks the link; I solitary stand By a giant gully's brink In some vast gloomy land. Sole central watcher, I With steadfast sadness now In that waste place descry 'Neath the awful heavens how Your life doth dizzy drop A little foam of flame From a peak without a top To a pit without a name. IN A CHAIR He room is full of the peace of night, The small flames murmur and flicker and sway, Within me is neither shadow, nor light, Nor night, nor twilight, nor dawn, nor day. For the brain strives not to the goal of thought, And the limbs lie wearied, and all desire Sleeps for a while, and I am naught But a pair of eyes that gaze at a fire. A DAY I. MORNING The village fades away Where I last night came Where they housed me and fed me And never asked my name.