A MATCH.

Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.

If you were life my darling,
And I your love, were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling,
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I, your love, were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons,
With loving looks and treasons,

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And tears of night and morrow,
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady,
And I were lord of May,

We'd throw with leaves for hours,
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady,
And night were bright as day;
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord of May.

If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;

If you were queen of pleasure
And I were king of pain.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. Garden Song.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown;

COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 111 Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,

To faint in the light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirred
To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one

With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine,

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clashed in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow, and on to the wood,

Our wood that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet

That whenever a March-wind sighs,

He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet,
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;

The white lake blossom fell into the lake
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake,

They sighed for the dawn and thee.

COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 113

Queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear,"

And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

ALFRED TENNYSON.