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A RED, RED ROSE
Robert Burns 1759-96
O my luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly spring in June;
O my luve’s like a melodie
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve
And fare thee weel awhile;
And I will come again, my luve
Though it were ten thousand mile!
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THE MOUNTAIN MAID
Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918
Half seated on a mossy crag,
Half crouching in the heather;
I found a little Irish maid,
All in June's golden weather.
Like some fond hand that loved the child,
The wind tossed back her tresses;
The heath-bells touched her unclad feet
With shy and soft caresses.
A mountain linnet flung his song
Into the air around her;
But all in vain the splendid hour,
For deep in woe I found her.
"Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!" she wept,
The tears fell fast and faster;
I sat myself beside her there,
To hear of her disaster.
Like dew on roses down her cheek
The diamond drops were stealing;
She laid her two brown hands in mine,
Her trouble all revealing.
Alas! Alas! the tale she told
In Gaelic low and tender;
A plague upon my Saxon tongue,
I could not comprehend her.
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DAFFODILS
Robert Herrick 1591-1674
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring!
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the Summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.
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ON A PAINTED WOMAN
Percy Byshe Shelley 1792-1822
To youths, who hurry thus away,
How silly your desire is
At such an early hour to pay
Your compliments to Iris.
Stop, prithee, stop, ye hasty beaux,
No longer urge this race on;
Though Iris has put on her clothes,
She has not put her face on.
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More poems on Monday
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Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918
Half seated on a mossy crag,
Half crouching in the heather;
I found a little Irish maid,
All in June's golden weather.
Like some fond hand that loved the child,
The wind tossed back her tresses;
The heath-bells touched her unclad feet
With shy and soft caresses.
A mountain linnet flung his song
Into the air around her;
But all in vain the splendid hour,
For deep in woe I found her.
"Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!" she wept,
The tears fell fast and faster;
I sat myself beside her there,
To hear of her disaster.
Like dew on roses down her cheek
The diamond drops were stealing;
She laid her two brown hands in mine,
Her trouble all revealing.
Alas! Alas! the tale she told
In Gaelic low and tender;
A plague upon my Saxon tongue,
I could not comprehend her.
-o=0=o-
DAFFODILS
Robert Herrick 1591-1674
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring!
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the Summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.
-o=0=o-
ON A PAINTED WOMAN
Percy Byshe Shelley 1792-1822
To youths, who hurry thus away,
How silly your desire is
At such an early hour to pay
Your compliments to Iris.
Stop, prithee, stop, ye hasty beaux,
No longer urge this race on;
Though Iris has put on her clothes,
She has not put her face on.
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More poems on Monday
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