…from the quills of the dead white poets
Alfred Tennyson (1809 – 1892)
It is the miller’s daughter,
And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel
That trembles in her ear;
For hid in ringlets day and night,
I’d touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle
About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
In sorrow and I in rest;
And I should know if it beat right,
I’d clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs;
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasp’d at night.
Love that hath us in the net,
Can he pass, and we forget?
Many suns arise and set;
Many a chance the years beget;
Love the gift is Love the debt.
Love is hurt, with jar and fret;
Love is made a vague regret;
Eyes with idle tears are wet;
Idle habit links us yet.
What is love? for we forget:
Ah, no! no!