Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/300
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
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.
268