ds fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

_ROBERT HERRICK_

NIGHT-PIECE TO JULIA

HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!

No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee!
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.

Then Julia let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And, when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee.

THE MAD MAID'S SONG

GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair,
Good-morrow, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to my own torn hair,
Bedabbled all with dew.

Good-morrow to this primrose too;
Good-morrow to each maid
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.

Ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me;
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
In the bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there, I know ere this
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who so rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed;
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.

TO BLOSSOMS

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do you fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'Tis pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

TO DAFFODILS

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Ha