ll once more
Are green with grass and plume;
The apple-trees again are hoar
With fragrant snow of bloom.
Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

The meadow-brook slips tinkling by
With silvery, rippling flow,
And blue-birds sing on fences nigh,
To dandelions below.
Oh! my Lady-love, Oh, my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I hear again the drowsy croon
Of honey-laden bees,
And catch the poppy-mellowed rune
They hum to locust trees.
Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady-love be? etc.

Far off the home-returning cows
Low that the Eve is late,
And call their calves neath apple-boughs
To meet them at the gate.
Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

Once more the Knights and ladies pass
In visions Fancy-wove:
I lie full length in summer grass,
To choose my own True-Love.
Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know not how,--I know not where,--
I dream a fairy-spell:
I know she is surpassing fair,--
I know I love her well.
Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know she is as pure as snow:--
As true as God's own Truth:--
I know,--I know I love her so,
She must love me, in sooth!
Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

I know the stars dim to her eyes;
The flowers blow in her face:
I know the angels in the skies
Have given her of their grace.
Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

And none but I her heart can move,
Though seraphs may have striven;
And when I find my own True-love,
I know I shall find Heaven.
Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be!
I will seek my Love with the wings of a dove
And pray her to love but me.

TO CLAUDIA

It is not, Claudia, that thine eyes
Are sweeter far to me,
Than is the light of Summer skies
To captives just set free.

It is not that the setting sun
Is tangled in thy hair,
And recks not of the course to run,
In such a silken snare.

Nor for the music of thy words,
Fair Claudia, love I thee,
Though sweeter than the songs of birds
That melody to me.

It is not that rich roses rare
Within thy garden grow,
Nor that the faires