the moon draw the sea The cloud may stoop from heaven & take the shape, with fold to fold, of mountain or of cape, But, I too fond, when have I answer'd thee? Tears, idle tears hik me no more, idle tears I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart & gather to the eyes the happy Autumn fields, In looking And thinking ASK ME NO MORE. O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. ASK ME NO MORE. Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, But, O too fond! when have I answered thee? Ask me no more: what answer should I give? Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die! Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed; ALFRED TENNYSON. THE BELFRY PIGEON. ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell I love to see him track the street, Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light, When the child is waked with "nine at night,' When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, THE BELFRY PIGEON. Whatever tale in the bell is heard, Sweet bird! I would that I could be I would that, in such wings of gold, I could my weary heart upfold ; I would I could look down unmoved, (Unloving as I am unloved,) And while the world throngs on beneath, Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe; And never glad with others' gladness, NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. VULCAN, CONTRIVE ME SUCH A CUP. VULCAN, contrive me such a cup Make it so large that, filled with sack, Vast toasts in the delicious lake, Engrave not battle on his cheek: Let it no names of planets tell, Fixed stars or constellations; For I am no Sir Sidrophel, But carve thereon a spreading vine; Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine, |