A Lover to His Rhyme

Go seek her out, my rhyme, Her of the cruel heart, And with your softest chime, And with your blandest art, Plead that this merry time May see her frowns depart. And whisper, ah, so low!— (And mark ye if she sigh!) That sprays of mistletoe Are plucked to hang on high, That holly berries glow, That Christmas-tide is nigh. And if ye win one smile, O speed ye hither swift! From eyes cast down the while The aching gloom will lift, And in the orchard aisle Will flower the frozen drift. More I that ray will prize Than pearls of orient birth; ’Twill set the wintry skies A-dazzle over earth; And love, in lilied guise, Will light the Christmas hearth.