Oliver Madox Brown

AH! long ago since I or thou
Glanced past these moorlands brow to brow,
Our mixed hair streaming down the wind—
So fleet! so sweet!
...

A dwalling drumble-drone ie' th' ruets,
An apple-dreane aboo,
Th' yapple-dreane sturtled and stugged ie' th' fruits,
...

“I love very well
The first blossoming
(I love well I ween)
That blooms in the spring;
...

The growth of love's fruit is
Most meet to eat;
Yet a snare where the root is
Entangles the feet.
...

Love is a desultory fire,
Blown by a wind made musical with sighs,
A void and wonderfully vague desire,
Which comes and flies.
...

Alas! who knows or cares, my love,
If our love live or die,—
If thou thy frailty, sweet, should prove,
Or my soul thine deny?
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Lady, we are growing tired!
Lo! our faltering breath,
Once with new-born love inspired,
Holds the love we once desired, as weary unto death.
...

Sing away, Oh sing away!
My father's ship sails swiftly home:
O'er the wind-blown waves a-foam
What gifts will be bring away?
...

Leaning against the window, rapt in thought,
Of what sweet past do thy soft brown eyes dream
That so expressionlessly sweet they seem?
...

No more these passion-worn faces shall men's eyes
Behold in life. Death leaves no trace behind
Of their wild hate and wilder love, grown blind
...

Leaning against the window, rapt in thought,
Of what sweet past do thy soft brown eyes dream
That so expressionlessly sweet they seem?
...