She lives, I think, On heavenly drink Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her; Else--when I sip At her soft lip How smells it of ambrosia? She is so fair None can compare; And, oh, her slender waist divine! Her sparkling eyes Set in the skies The morning stars would far outshine! Only to hear Her voice so clear The village gathers in the street; And Tityrus, Grown one of us, Leaves piping on his flute so sweet. The Graces three, Where'er she be, Call all the Loves to flutter nigh; And what she 'll say,-- Speak when she may,-- Is full of sense and majesty! [Decoration] [Decoration] THOMAS ASHE. 1836-1889. _NO AND YES._ If I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss! Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild. If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say "her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair;" And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled. _AT ALTENAHR._ 1872. _Meet we no angels, Pansie?_ Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:-- Meet we no angels, Pansie? She said, "We meet no angels now;" And soft lights streamed upon her; And with white hand she touched a bough; She did it that great honour:-- What! meet no angels, Pansie? O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes Down-dropped brown eyes so tender! Then what said I?--Gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:-- But,--meet no angels, Pansie? _MARIT._ 1869-70. _C'est un songe que d'y penser._ My love, on a fair May morning, Would weave a garland of May: The dew hung frore, as her foot tripped o'er The grass at dawn of the day; On leaf and stalk, in each green wood-walk, Till the sun should charm it away. Green as a leaf her kirtle, Her bodice red as a rose: Her white bare feet went softly and sweet By roots where the violet grows; Where speedwells azure as heaven, Their sleepy eyes half close. O'er arms as fair as the lilies No sleeve my love drew on: She found a bower of the wildrose flower, And for her breast culled one: And I laugh and know her breasts will grow Or ever a year be gone. [Illustration: Full-page Plate] O sweet dream, wrought of a dear fore-thought, Of a golden time to fall! She seemed to sing, in her wandering, Till doves in the elm-tops tall Grew mute to hear; as her song rang clear How love is the lord of all. [Decoration] [Decoration] ALFRED AUSTIN. 1835. _A NIGHT IN JUNE._