. Fire and air . on thee! And when the lover wins the bower,Still in thy coyness wilt thou cower From his devout caresses free;And hands and feet must all entwineTo let his cheek descend to thine. To wed his lips to poetry! Oer many a mile of land and seaI pilgrimaged to look on thee,— To greet thy walls and towers;Methinks the path of poesyIs like the steps that lead to thee, Whose stones are books all bound in flowers! O tell me grey old sacred stone,Art thou the brother of great Scone, Where sits enthroned majesty,Or didst thou pillow Jacobs head,When Bethel made a heavenly bed, In Israels
. Fire and air . on thee! And when the lover wins the bower,Still in thy coyness wilt thou cower From his devout caresses free;And hands and feet must all entwineTo let his cheek descend to thine. To wed his lips to poetry! Oer many a mile of land and seaI pilgrimaged to look on thee,— To greet thy walls and towers;Methinks the path of poesyIs like the steps that lead to thee, Whose stones are books all bound in flowers! O tell me grey old sacred stone,Art thou the brother of great Scone, Where sits enthroned majesty,Or didst thou pillow Jacobs head,When Bethel made a heavenly bed, In Israels sacred history! Did Englands good Queen christen theeBecause Clancarthy kept thee free With polished words of flattery,Or hath Cormac McCarthy wonFrom drowning witch a silver tongue Because she bade him climb to thee! O sacred Sybil, silent keepThe secret of thy magic deep. Thy polished lips when they kissed meIn silent splendor seemed to sayThat lips can wear the stones away! Such is the power of kissing thee!. — To Gladys of Worcester W AIREST of all the maids of Malvern fair,Loveliest of all the belles of Worcestershire, Queen of the valley-land and mountains whereThe pine in beauty rivals gothic spire! O Princess beautiful in beautys land, Wed to the king of all the mountains wild, Let not a mortal have thy fairy hand, —Nymph of the river Severn, Dianas child! O sweetest rose that blows on Malverns hills,Leave not thy forests fair, thy rivers bright, The gay-decked mountains and the laughing rills,To seek the city dark of dreadful night! O fairy maid, too fair for mortal man, That lovely diamond mars thy lovelier hand, And I could wish the cruel stone againWithin its chrysalis, lost in the sand, Back in its desert isle, without that bandOf gilded dust, tossed in the deep dark sea, Or back again upon that rougher handOf him who gave the token false to thee.
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Keywords: ., bo, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, bookpublishernp, bookyear1914
