But, let me tell you all I feel, And then, if you must still deny No tears shall dim my sight, no sigh Shall pass my lips, I'll only kneel Before you in the dust and say, "Tread on me, as you go your way." MISTRESS SPRING (_Song_) Sweet Mistress Spring, all decked in green, How fresh you look this morning; 'Tis sure a year since we have seen Such flowers your brow adorning. And will you come and walk with me? I'll prove an ardent lover, Beneath the boughs of some kind tree We'll seek convenient cover. There will I praise with light refrain Your most enchanting weather, While you shall make a daisy chain, To bind our hearts together. WHAT'S WRONG? There's something wrong with the world to-day, What can it be, what can it be? The morn is at six, and the year's at May, So mayhap that something is wrong with me. But there's something wrong, With the joyous song Of the thrush in the apple-tree. There's something gone from my heart I trow! That then is why, that then is why The flower seems dead on the orchard bough, And never a sunbeam is in the sky. There's something gone, And the light of the dawn Is the dimmer when you're not by. GENTLE DAME PRISCILLA (_Song_) Gentle Dame Priscilla At her wheel is singing, Singing of her lover, very far away. Would I were that lover, From my hiding springing I would stop her singing in my own fond way. Gentle Dame Priscilla At her wheel is spinning Fancies of her lover, who has gone to sea. Would I were that lover, Honey-tongued and winning, It were then no sinning though I kissed her free. TO THE NIGHTINGALE Oh Nightingale, has that pale star heard you Sobbing your passion into a song? Has she deigned to stoop from her throne of splendour, Deigned to pity your life's surrender, Deigned to throw you a beam-smile tender, You who have waited and loved so long? Oh Nightingale, is your wondrous music Cleaving the depths of the dark apart, Born of a hope that is wearily dying? Is she ever and aye denying That for which you are always sighing? Do you sing with a broken heart? A MORNING THOUGHT Wind and mist of the upland places, Thrill and hush of the cloud-swept spaces, Glow of sky that the sun embraces, Over a world of dew. Purple-dusk of the sweet Scotch heather, Golden gorse, in the summer weather, Hand in hand, you and I together, If it were only true! TO-DAY To-day is a bumper of golden wine, Drink deep, deep, deep! While the earth is green, and the cup is thine, For there cometh an hour when a man must weep, And there cometh a time when a man must sleep, So drink deep, deep, deep.