18
Richard Forest's Midsummer Night.
You naked moon, whose splendours make
The soul of her pure love bare to me.
The soul of her pure love bare to me.
Oh, I love you all for your own love's sake,
And my love of my Love and her love to me,
Dear earth and sea and heavens that make
This life as the life above to me.
And my love of my Love and her love to me,
Dear earth and sea and heavens that make
This life as the life above to me.
VII.
She is not there at the rustic gate,
Nor in the garden, nor in the porch:
Lucy! the hour is not yet late,
The moon, our this night's signal torch,
The beacon-fire of our hearts' desire,
Over the wooded promontory
Shines on our bay in all her glory.
She is not there at the rustic gate,
Nor in the garden, nor in the porch:
Lucy! the hour is not yet late,
The moon, our this night's signal torch,
The beacon-fire of our hearts' desire,
Over the wooded promontory
Shines on our bay in all her glory.
Good Father nods in his old arm-chair,
A-dozing over his evening pipe,
The old brown jug at his elbow there
Half-full of the old ale humming-ripe;
For his work is done with the set o' the sun,
And he settles down content and placid,
Sweetness without one drop of acid.
A-dozing over his evening pipe,
The old brown jug at his elbow there
Half-full of the old ale humming-ripe;
For his work is done with the set o' the sun,
And he settles down content and placid,
Sweetness without one drop of acid.
And our little Mother upright sits,
Under her glasses glancing keen
Under her glasses glancing keen
