The Villain

While joy gave clouds the light of stars,
That beamed where'er they looked;
And calves and lambs had tottering knees,
Excited, while they sucked;
While every bird enjoyed his song,
Without one thought of harm or wrong —
I turned my head and saw the wind,
Not far from where I stood,
Dragging the corn by her golden hair,
Into a dark and lonely wood.

Playing figure silhouetted

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Bird and Brook

My song, that's bird-like in its kind,
Is in the mind,
Love — in the mind;
And in my season I am moved
No more or less from being loved;
No woman's love has power to bring
My song back when I cease to sing;
Nor can she, when my season's strong,
Prevent my mind from song.
But where I feel your woman's part,
Is in the heart,
Love — in the heart;
For when that bird of mine broods long,
And I'd be sad without my song,
Your love then makes my heart a brook
That dreams in many a quiet nook,
And makes a steady, murmuring sound
Of joy the whole year round.

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Passion's Hounds

With mighty leaps and bounds,
I followed Passion's hounds,
My hot blood had its day;
Lust, Gluttony, and Drink,
I chased to Hell's black brink,
Both night and day.
I ate like three strong men,
I drank enough for ten,
Each hour must have its glass
Yes, Drink and Gluttony
Have starved more brains, say I,
Than Hunger has.
And now, when I grow old,
And my slow blood is cold,
And feeble is my breath —
I'm followed by those hounds,
Whose mighty leaps and bounds
Hunt me to death.

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The Truth

Since I have seen a bird one day,
His head pecked more than half away;
That hopped about, with but one eye,
Ready to fight again, and die —
Ofttimes since then their private lives
Have spoilt that joy their music gives.
So, when I see this robin now,
Like a red apple on the bough,
And question why he sings so strong,
For love, or for the love of song;
Or sings, maybe, for that sweet rill
Whose silver tongue is never still —
Ah, now there comes this thought unkind,
Born of the knowledge in my mind:
He sings in triumph that last night
He killed his father in a fight;
And now he'll take his mother's blood —
The last strong rival for his food.

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The Force of Love

Have I now found an angel in Unrest,
That wakeful Love is more desired than sleep:
Though you seem calm and gentle, you shall show
The force of this strong love in me so deep.
Yes, I will make you, though you seem so calm,
Look from your blue eyes that divinest joy
As was in Juno's, when she made great Jove
Forget the war and half his heaven in Troy.
And I will press your lips until they mix
With my poor quality their richer wine:
Be my Parnassus now, and grow more green
Each upward step towards your top divine.

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April's Lambs

Though I was born in April's prime,
With many another lamb,
Yet, thinking now of all my years,
What am I but a tough old ram?
"No woman thinks of years," said she,
"Or any tough old rams,
When she can hear a voice that bleats
As tenderly as any lamb's."

A piper on the hill

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