Poems with rhymes of mine

And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

The only king by right divine
Is Ellen King, and were she mine

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,
I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel it should tine.

And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

Because the Cause was Mine—
The Misery a Compact
As hopeless—as divine—

I have drunk your water and wine.
In deaths ye died I have watched beside,
And the lives ye led were mine.

And on that Tomb to read the line,
Here lies a Love that once was mine,

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee,--nor what deeds are thine:

There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.

In wondrous words and fine,
And poet and painter but mimic it,
Your life, my friend, and mine.

That right—was thine—
One port—suffices—for a Brig—like mine—

In that bonie face o' thine,
And my heart it sounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

And a blackbird tries over old airs in the pine,
But the moon is a sorry one, sad the bird's tune,
For this spot is unknown to that Heartmate of mine.

'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine
Their conquests _do_ recall,
But none can truly say that mine

In disregard of the divine,
A glory kindles in those eyes
Trembles to starlight. Mine, O Mine!

In that brief day of mine?
The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff
The sun pours out like wine.

When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine,
Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.

In any breast as thou hast rais'd in mine.
No wandering meteor now, no marshy fire,
Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine:

They brought me rubies from the mine,
And held them to the sun;
I said, they are drops of frozen wine

You speak another tongue than mine,
Though both were English born.
I towards the night of time decline,