I’ve looked into thy deep eyes oft, Where heaven seemed sleeping blue and soft. I’ve gazed on all thy beauty long, I’ve heard thy witching voice of song, I’ve listened when thy deep words came As if thy lips were touched with flame, I’ve marked thee smile, I’ve marked thee weep. I’ve blest thee in the hour of sleep, I’ve felt thy heart beat wild to hear Love’s cadence stealing on thine ear, And I have been supremely blest When thou wast folded to my breast, And thy dear lips were pressed to mine— But wilt thou be my Valentine?
Dove of my spirit! gentle dove, That bring’st the olive-bough of love To me when waters vast and dark Are tossing wild beneath my bark, Sweet queller of my bosom’s strife, Blest haunter of each thought of life. Dear brightner of my soul’s eclipse, Sultana of my longing lips, Queen-fairy of my fairy dreams, Young Naiad of my soul’s deep streams, Bright rainbow of life’s stormy day, Lone palm-tree of my desert way, Soft dew-drop of my heart’s one flower, Young song-bird of my spirit’s bower, My star when all beside is dim, My morning prayer, my evening hymn, My hope, my bliss, my life, my love, My all of earth, my heaven above, On lightning pinions wild and free, My panting spirit flies to thee, And worships at thy burning shrine— But wilt thou be my Valentine?
[Illustration: figure of a woman sitting on vines with birds perched above her]
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, “I love, and I love!” In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong; What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving, all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green-fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, “I love my love, and my love loves me!”
At her lattice sits Leora, In the long and mellow June, What time when whitely westward Shines the round and pendent moon.
Sits she silent, sits she sadly, With her head upon her hand, Looking outward where the Ebro Throws its ripples on the sand.
Never lighter blew the breezes In the vales of Aragon, Never smiled Hesperia’s heavens With more lovely glories on.