WILLIAM BROWNE
He that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, then . . .
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, then . . .
He that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool if e'er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.
Welcome, welcome, then . . .
Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool if e'er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.
Welcome, welcome, then . . .
He to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odours of the fields
Never, never shall be missing.
Welcome, welcome, then . . .
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odours of the fields
Never, never shall be missing.
Welcome, welcome, then . . .
He that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, then . . .
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, then . . .
249
The Sirens' Song
STEER, hither steer your wingèd pines,
All beaten mariners!
Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers—
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phœnix' urn and nest.
All beaten mariners!
Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers—
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phœnix' urn and nest.
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