Love

Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory.—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.— Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heap'd for the beloved's bed—And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.
The fountains mingle with the riverAnd the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single,All things by a law divineIn one another's being mingle—Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another;No sister-flower would be forgivenIf it disdain'd its brother;And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea—What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?
Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed;And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,Love itself shall slumber on.
I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright.I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—And the champak’s odoursLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale’s complaint,It dies upon her heart,As I must on thine,O beloved as thou art!O lift me from the grass!I die! I faint! I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast:O press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last!
Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures prove,That valleys, groves, hills and fields,Woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers and a kirtleEmbroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair-lined slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs;And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning;If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my love.
It lies not in our power to love or hate,For will in us is overruled by fate.When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,We wish that one should love, the other win;And one especially do we affectOf two gold ingots, like in each respect:The reason no man knows, let it suffice,What we behold is censured by our eyes.Where both deliberate, the love is slight:Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?
It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea:But we loved with a love that was more than love - I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee;So that her high-born kinsmen cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me - Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud one night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we - Of many far wiser than we - And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,In the sepulchre there by the sea - In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Thou wast all that to me, love,For which my soul did pine-A green isle in the sea, love,A fountain and a shrine,All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!Ah, starry Hope! that didst ariseBut to be overcast!A voice from out the Future cries,"On! on!"- but o'er the Past(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering liesMute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! meThe light of Life is o'er!"No more- no more- no more-"(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted treeOr the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy grey eye glances,And where thy footstep gleams-In what ethereal dances,By what eternal streams.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.I love thee to the level of everyday'sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.I love thee with a passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.
If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say 'I love her for her smile---her look---her way Of speaking gently,---for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'--- For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may Be changed, or change for thee,---and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--- A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient sleepless eremite,The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors;No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
1The gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 2Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!
O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I: And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt with the sun; I will luve thee still my dear, When the sands of life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.On her cheek an autumn flush,Deeply ripened; such a blushIn the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright.And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks,Praising God with sweetest looks:Sure, I said, heaven did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.
The wind is tossing the lilacs,The new leaves laugh in the sun,And the petals fall on the orchard wall,But for me the spring is done.Beneath the apple blossomsI go a wintry way,For love that smiled in AprilIs false to me in May.
As often-times the too resplendent sunHurries the pallid and reluctant moonBack to her sombre cave, ere she hath wonA single ballad from the nightingale,So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,And all my sweetest singing out of tune.And as at dawn across the level meadOn wings impetuous some wind will come,And with its too harsh kisses break the reedWhich was its only instrument of song,So my too stormy passions work me wrong,And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.But surely unto Thee mine eyes did showWhy I am silent, and my lute unstrung;Else it were better we should part, and go,Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,And I to nurse the barren memoryOf unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
I'd rather have the thought of youTo hold against my heart,My spirit to be taught of youWith west winds blowing,Than all the warm caressesOf another love's bestowing,Or all the glories of the worldIn which you had no part.I'd rather have the theme of youTo thread my nights and days,I'd rather have the dream of youWith faint stars glowing,I'd rather have the want of you,The rich, elusive taunt of youForever and forever and forever unconfessedThan claim the alien comfortOf any other's breast.O lover! O my lover,That this should come to me!I'd rather have the hope of you,Ah, Love, I'd rather grope for youWithin the great abyssThan claim another's kiss-Alone I'd rather go my wayThroughout eternity.
Tell me,Was Venus more beautifulThan you are,When she toppedThe crinkled waves,Drifting shorewardOn her plaited shell?Was Botticelli’s visionFairer than mine;And were the painted rosebudsHe tossed his ladyOf better worthThan the words I blow about youTo cover your too great lovelinessAs with a gauzeOf misted silver?
For me,You stand poisedIn the blue and buoyant air,Cinctured by bright winds,Treading the sunlight.And the waves which precede youRipple and stirThe sands at my feet.
An old silver church in a forestIs my love for you.The trees around itAre words that I have stolen from your heart.An old silver bell, the last smile you gave,Hangs at the top of my church.It rings only when you come through the forestAnd stand beside it.And then, it has no need for ringing,For your voice takes its place.
Adieu, kind Life, though thou hast often beenLavish of quip, and scant of courtesy,Beneath thy roughness I have found in theeA host who doth my parting favor win.Friend, teacher, sage, and sometimes harlequin,Thine every mood hath held some good for me,—Nor even friendlier seemed thy companyThan on this night when I must quit thine inn.I love thee, Life, in spite of thy rude ways!Dear is thy pleasant house, so long my home.I thank thee for the hospitable days,The friends, the rugged cheer. Then, landlord, come!Pour me a stirrup cup,—our parting nears:I ever liked thy wine, though salt with tears.
We have been friends together,In sunshine and in shade;Since first beneath the chestnut-treesIn infancy we played.But coldness dwells within thy heart,A cloud is on thy brow;We have been friends together—Shall a light word part us now?We have been gay together;We have laugh’d at little jests;For the fount of hope was gushingWarm and joyous in our breasts.But laughter now hath fled thy lip,And sullen glooms thy brow;We have been gay together—Shall a light word part us now?We have been sad together,We have wept, with bitter tears,O’er the grass-grown graves, where slumber’dThe hopes of early years.The voices which are silent thereWould bid thee clear thy brow;We have been sad together—Oh! what shall part us now?
O, my friend,What fitting word can I say?You, my chum,My companion of infinite talks,My inspiration,My guide,Through whom I saw myself at best;You, the light of this western country.You, a great richness.A glory,A charm,Product and treasure of these States.
Bill, I knew you had gone.I was walking down into town this morning,And amid the hurry of cars and the flash of this July sun,You came to me.At least the intimation came to me;And may it be you,That somewhere I can laugh and talk long hours with you again.
I read, dear friend, in your dear faceYour life’s tale told with perfect grace;The river of your life, I traceUp the sun-chequered, devious bedTo the far-distant fountain-head.Not one quick beat of your warm heart,Nor thought that came to you apart,Pleasure nor pity, love nor painNor sorrow, has gone by in vain;But as some lone, wood-wandering childBrings home with him at evening mildThe thorns and flowers of all the wild,From your whole life, O fair and trueYour flowers and thorns you bring with you!
To me, fair friend, you never can be oldFor as you were when first your eye I ey’d,Such seems your beauty still. Three winters coldHave from the forests shook three summers’ pride,Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’dIn process of the seasons I have seen,Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,Steal from this figure, and no pace perceiv’d;So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d:For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
When a friend calls to me from the roadAnd slows his horse to a meaning walk,I don’t stand still and look aroundOn all the hills I haven’t hoed,And shout from where I am, What is it?No, not as there is a time to talk.I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,Blade-end up and five feet tall,And plod: I go up to the stone wallFor a friendly visit.
 When, dearest, I but think of thee,Methinks all things that lovely beAre present, and my soul delighted:For beauties that from worth ariseAre like the grace of deities,Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.Thus while I sit and sigh the dayWith all his borrow’d lights away,Till night’s black wings do overtake me,Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,As sudden lights do sleepy men,So they by their bright rays awake me.Thus absence dies, and dying provesNo absence can subsist with lovesThat do partake of fair perfection:Since in the darkest night they mayBy love’s quick motion find a wayTo see each other by reflection.The waving sea can with each floodBathe some high promont that hath stoodFar from the main up in the river:O think not then but love can doAs much! for that ’s an ocean too,Which flows not every day, but ever! 
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?O stay and hear! your true-love’s comingThat can sing both high and low;Trip no further, pretty sweeting,Journeys end in lovers’ meeting—Every wise man’s son doth know.
What is love? ‘tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What’s to come is still unsure:In delay there lies no plenty,—Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
I’ve watched you now a full half-hour,Self-poised upon that yellow flower;And, little Butterfly! indeedI know not if you sleep or feed.How motionless!—not frozen seasMore motionless! and thenWhat joy awaits you, when the breezeHath found you out among the trees,And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;My trees they are, my Sister’s flowers;Here rest your wings when they are weary;Here lodge as in a sanctuary!Come often to us, fear no wrong;Sit near us on the bough!We’ll talk of sunshine and of song,And summer days, when we were young;Sweet childish days, that were as longAs twenty days are now.
Surprised by joy, impatient as the WindI turned to share the transport O! with whomBut Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love, recall’d thee to my mindBut how could I forget thee? Through what power,Even for the least division of an hour,Have I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss? That thought’s returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.
Since there’s not help, come let us kiss and part;Nay, I am done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free;Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we, one jot of former love retain.Now, at the last gasp of love’s latest breath,When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And innocence is closing up his eyes,Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life Thou mightst him yet recover.
Under the harvest moon,When the soft silverDrips shimmeringOver garden nights,Death, the gray mocker,Comes and whispers to youAs a beautiful friendWho remembers.
Under the summer rosesWhen the flagrant crimsonLurks in the duskOf the wild red leaves,Love, with little hands,Comes and touches youWith a thousand memories,And asks youBeautiful, unanswerable questions.
Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay!Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers—Things that are made to fade and fall awayEre they have blossom’d for a few short hours.Love not!Love not! the thing ye love may change:The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.Love not!Love not! the thing you love may die,May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,Beam o’er its grave, as once upon its birth.Love not!Love not! oh warning vainly saidIn present hours as in the years gone by;Love flings a halo round the dear ones’ head,Faultless, immortal, till they change or die,Love not!
How could I love you more?I would give upEven that beauty I have loved too wellThat I might love you better.Alas, how poor the gifts that lovers give—I can but give you of my flesh and strength,I can but give you these few passing daysAnd passionate words that, since our speech began,All lovers whisper in all ladies’ ears.
I try to think of some one lovely giftNo lover yet in all the world has found;I think: If the cold sombre godsWere hot with love as I amCould they not endow you with a starAnd fix bright youth for ever in your limbs?Could they not give you all things that I lack?
You should have loved a god; I am but dust.Yet no god loves as loves this poor frail dust.
Friend, whose smile has come to beVery precious unto me,Though I know I drank not firstOf your love’s bright fountain-burst,Yet I grieve not for the past,So you only love me last!Other souls may find their joyIn the blind love of a boy:Give me that which years have tried,Disciplined and purified,—Such as, braving sun and blast,You will bring to me at last!There are brows more fair than mine,Eyes of more bewitching shine,Other hearts more fit, in truth,For the passion of your youth;But, their transient empire past,You will surely love me last!Wing away your summer-time,Find a love in every clime,Roam in liberty and light,—I shall never stay your flight,For I know, when all is pastYou will come to me at last!
Out upon it, I have lovedThree whole days together!And am like to love three more,If it prove fair weather.Time shall moult away his wingsEre he shall discoverIn the whole wide world againSuch a constant lover.But the spite on ‘t is, no praiseIs due at all to me:Love with me had made no stays,Had it any been but she.Had it any been but she,And that very face,There had been at least ere thisA dozen dozen in her place.
Love me not for comely graceFor my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part,No, nor for my constant heart.For those my fail or turn to ill,So thou and I shall sever.Keep therefore a true woman's eye,And love me still, but know not why;So hast thou the same reason stillTo doat upon me ever.
Maxwelton's hills are bonnieWhere early falls the dewAnd 'twas there that Annie LaurieGived me her promise true. Gived me her promise trueWhich ne'er forgot shall beAnd for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me down and die.Her brow is like the snow drift,Her throat is like the swan,Her face, it is the fairestThat e'er the sun shone on.That e'er the sun shone onAnd dark blue are her eyesAnd for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me down and die.Like dew on the daisy lyin'Is the fall of her fairy feetAnd like winds in summer sighingHer voice is low and sweet.Her voice is low and sweet And she's all the world to meAnd for bonnie Annie LaurieI'd lay me down and die.
Tell me no more how fair she is,I have no minde to hearThe story of that distant blissI never shall come near:By sad experience I have foundThat her perfection is my wound.And tell me not how fond I amTo tempt a daring Fate,From whence no triumph ever came,But to repent too late:There is some hope ere long I mayIn silence dote my self away.I ask no pity (Love) from thee,Nor will thy justice blame,So that thou wilt not envy meeThe glory of my flame:Which crowns my heart when ere it dyes,In that it falls her sacrifice.
My love is like to ice, and I to fire:How come it then that this her cold is so greatIs not dissolved through my so hot desire,But harder grows the more I her entreat?Or how comes it that my exceeding heatIs not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,And feel my flames augmented manifold?What more miraculous thing may be told,That fire, which is congealed with senseless cold,Should kindle fire by wonderful device?Such is the power of love in gentle mind,That it can alter all the course of kind.
I said--Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seem'd meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be-- My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,--I claim Only a memory of the same, --And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me. My mistress bent that brow of hers, Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fix'd me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenish'd me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night? Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosom'd, over-bow'd By many benedictions--sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once-- And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- Thus leant she and linger'd--joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast. Then we began to ride. My soul Smooth'd itself out, a long-cramp'd scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seem'd my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rush'd by on either side. I thought,--All labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride. What hand and brain went ever pair'd? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave. What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you express'd You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turn'd a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride. And you, great sculptor--so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend?-- 'Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!' I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine. Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being--had I sign'd the bond-- Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. And yet--she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturn'd Whither life's flower is first discern'd, We, fix'd so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,-- And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride?
Room after room,I hunt the house throughWe inhabit together.Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her--Next time, herself!--not the trouble behind herLeft in the curtain, the couch's perfume!As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew:Yon looking-glass gleaned at the wave of her feather.Yet the day wears,And door succeeds door;I try the fresh fortune--Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.Still the same chance! She goes out as I enter.Spend my whole day in the quest--who cares?But 'tis twilight, you see--with such suites to explore,Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!
I found Thee in my heart, O Lord, As in some secret shrine; I knelt, I waited for Thy word, I joyed to name Thee mine. I feared to give myself away To that or this; beside Thy altar on my face I lay, And in strong need I cried. Those hours are past. Thou art not mine, And therefore I rejoice, I wait within no holy shrine, I faint not for the voice. In Thee we live; and every wind Of heaven is Thine; blown free To west, to east, the God unshrined Is still discovering me.
If any sense in mortal dust remains When mine has been refin'd from flower to flower, Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower And delicate winy dews, and gain'd the gains Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing Through half a summer day, for love bestow, Then in some warm old garden let me grow To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing As this. Upon a southward-facing wall I bask, and feel my juices dimly fed And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden grey: Keep the wasps from me! But before I fall Pluck me, white fingers, and o'er two ripe-red Girl lips O let me richly swoon away!
You were glad to-night: and now you’ve gone away.Flushed in the dark, you put your dreams to bed;But as you fall asleep I hear you sayThose tired sweet drowsy words we left unsaid.
Sleep well: for I can follow you, to blessAnd lull your distant beauty where you roam;And with wild songs of hoarded lovelinessRecall you to these arms that were your home.
The fair varieties of earth,The heavens serene and blue above,The rippling smile of mighty seas—What is the charm of all, but love?By love they minister to thought,Love makes them breathe the poet’s song;When their Creator best is prais’d,‘Tis love inspires the adoring throng.Knowledge, and power, and will supreme,Are but celestial tyranny,Till they are consecrate by love,The essence of divinity.For love is strength, and faith, and hope;It crowns with bliss our mortal state;And, glancing far beyond the grave,Foresees a life of endless date.That life is love; and all of lifeTime or eternity can prove;Both men and angels, worms and godsExist in universal love.
You never understood, O unknown one,Why it was I repaidYour devoted friendship and delicate ministrationsFirst with diminished thanks,Afterward by gradually withdrawing my presence from you,So that I might not be compelled to thank you,And then with silence which followed uponOur final Separation.You had cured my diseased soul. But to cure itYou saw my disease, you knew my secret,And that is why I fled from you.For though when our bodies rise from painWe kiss forever the watchful handsThat gave us wormwood, while we shudderFor thinking of the wormwood,A soul that’s cured is a different matter,For there we’d blot from memoryThe soft-toned words, the searching eyes,And stand forever oblivious,Not so much of the sorrow itselfAs of the hand that healed it.
When we were idlers with the loitering rills,The need of human love we little noted:Our love was nature; and the peace that floatedOn the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,That, wisely doting, ask’d not why it doted,And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.But now I find how dear thou wert to me;That man is more than half of nature’s treasure,Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure,The hills sleep on in their eternity.
Since I lost you, my darling, the sky has come near,And I am of it, the small sharp stars are quite near,The white moon going among them like a white bird among snow-berries,And the sound of her gently rustling in heaven like a bird I hear.
And I am willing to come to you now, my dear,As a pigeon lets itself off from a cathedral domeTo be lost in the haze of the sky, I would like to come,And be lost out of sight with you, and be gone like foam.
For I am tired, my dear, and if I could lift my feet,My tenacious feet from off the dome of the earthTo fall like a breath within the breathing windWhere you are lost, what rest, my love, what rest!
Thou art to all lost love the best,The only true plant found,Wherewith young men and maids distrest,And left of love, are crown’d.When once the lover’s rose is dead,Or laid aside forlorn:Then willow-garlands ‘bout the headBedew’d with tears are worn.When with neglect, the lovers’ bane,Poor maids rewarded beFor their love lost, their only gainIs but a wreath from thee.And underneath thy cooling shade,When weary of the light,The love-spent youth and love-sick maidCome to weep out the night.
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty;Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty:A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.Her lips to mine how often hath she join’d,Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!How many tales to please me hath she coin’d,Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing!Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings,Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.She burn’d with love, as straw with fire flameth;She burn’d out love, as soon as straw outburneth;She fram’d the love, and yet she foil’d the framing;She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.
When love has changed to kindliness—Oh, love, our hungry lips, that pressSo tight that Time’s an old gold’s dreamNodding in heaven, and whisper stuffSeven million years were not enoughTo think on after, make it seemLess than the breath of children playing,A blasphemy scarce worth the saying,A sorry jest, “When love has grownTo kindliness—to kindliness!” ...And yet—the best that either’s knownWill change, and wither, and be less,At last, than comfort, or its ownRemembrance. And when some caressTendered in habit (once a flameAll heaven sang out to) wakes the shameUnworded, in the steady eyesWe’ll have,—that day, what shall we do?Being so noble, kill the twoWho’ve reached their second-best? Being wise,Break cleanly off, and get away.Follow down other windier skiesNew lures, alone? Or shall we stay,Since this is all we’ve known, contentIn the lean twilight of such day,And not remember, not lament?That time when all is over, andHand never flinches, brushing hand;And blood lies quiet, for all you’re near;And it’s but spoken words we hear,Where trumpets sang; when the mere skiesAre stranger and nobler than your eyes;And flesh is flesh, was flame before;And infinite hungers leap no moreIn the chance swaying of your dress;And love has changed to kindliness.
Love guards the roses of thy lipsAnd flies about them like a bee;If I approach he forward skips,And if I kiss he stingeth me.Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look the boy will lower,And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.Love works thy heart within his fire,And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt it will retire,And of my plaints doth make a game.Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowersThen will I praise thy deity.But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,Where that comes in that shall not go again;Love sells the proud heart’s citadel to Fate.They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,And agony’s forgot, and hushed the cryingOf credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but takingTheir own poor dreams within their arms, and lyingEach in his lonely night, each with a ghost.Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.All this is love; and love is but this.
I know what my heart is likeSince your love died:It is like a hollow ledgeHolding a little poolLeft there by the tide,A little tepid pool,Drying inward from the edge.
I wander’d lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o’er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the Milky Way,They stretch’d in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay;Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee;A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
When I go away from youThe world beats deadLike a slackened drum.I call out for you against the jutted starsAnd shout into the ridges of the wind.Streets coming fast,One after the other,Wedge you away from me,And the lamps of the city prick my eyesSo that I can no longer see your face.Why should I leave you,To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?
O, hurry, where by water, among the trees,The delicate-stepping stag and his lady sigh,When they have looked upon their imagesWould none had ever loved but you and I!Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoedPale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky,When the sun looked out of his golden hood?O, that none ever loved but you and I!O hurry to the ragged wood, for thereI will drive all those lovers out and cryO, my share of the world, O, yellow hair!No one has ever loved but you and I.
I dwelt aloneIn a world of moan,And my soul was a stagnant tide,Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less—less brightThe stars of the nightThan the eyes of the radiant girl!That the vapor can makeWith the moon-tints of purple and pearl,Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl—Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl.
Now Doubt—now PainCome never again,For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,And all day longShines, bright and strong,Astarte within the sky,While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
You will come one day in a waver of love,Tender as dew, impetuous as rain,The tan of the sun will be on your skin,The purr of the breeze in your murmuring speech,You will pose with a hill-flower grace.
You will come, with your slim, expressive arms,A poise of the head no sculptor has caughtAnd nuances spoken with shoulder and neck,Your face in pass-and-repass of moodsAs many as skies in delicate changeOf cloud and blue and flimmering sun.
Yet,You may not come, O girl of a dream,We may but pass as the world goes byAnd take from a look of eyes into eyes,A film of hope and a memoried day.
Two separate divided silences,Which, brought together, would find loving voice;Two glances which together would rejoiceIn love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease;Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:--Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecastIndeed one hour again, when on this streamOf darkened love once more the light shall gleam?An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream.
My true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for another given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies; What are you when the moon shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what 's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise? You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown? So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.
Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries-- Heigh ho! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting. Why so? More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries-- Heigh ho!
Hey, rose, just bornTwin to a thorn;Was't so with you, O Love and Scorn?Sweet eyes that smiled,Now wet and wild:O Eye and Tear- mother and child.Well: Love and PainBe kinfolks twain;Yet would, Oh would I could Love again.
Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands. Ah! longer, longer, we. Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done, Love, lay thine hand in mine. Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O night! divorce our sun and sky apart Never our lips, our hands.
At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart: And as the last slow sudden drops are shed From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled, So singly flagged the pulses of each heart. Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start Of married flowers to either side outspread From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red, Fawned on each other where they lay apart. Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams, And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away. Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day; Till from some wonder of new woods and streams He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,--...The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:...Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,...Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge...Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass. Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-flyHangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:--...So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,This close-companioned inarticulate hour...When twofold silence was the song of love.
What of her glass without her? The blank greyThere where the pool is blind of the moon’s face.Her dress without her? The tossed empty spaceOf cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.Her paths without her? Day’s appointed swayUsurped by desolate night. Her pillowed placeWithout her? Tears, ah me! for love’s good grace,And cold forgetfulness of night or day.What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart,Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.
Love, if I weep it will not matter, And if you laugh I shall not care;Foolish am I to think about it, But it is good to feel you there. Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking, -- White and awful the moonlight reachedOver the floor, and somewhere, somewhere, There was a shutter loose, -- it screeched! Swung in the wind, -- and no wind blowing! -- I was afraid, and turned to you,Put out my hand to you for comfort, -- And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew, Under my hand the moonlight lay! Love, if you laugh I shall not care,But if I weep it will not matter, -- Ah, it is good to feel you there!
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,How can ye blume sae fair!How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu' o' care!Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o' the happy daysWhen my fause* Luve was true.Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o' my fate.Aft hae I roved by bonnie DoonTo see the woodbine twine,And ilka* bird sang o' its love;And sae did I o' mine.Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Frae aff its thorny tree;And my fause luver staw* the rose,But left the thorn wi' me.
I sleep with thee, and wake with thee, And yet thou art not there; I fill my arms with thoughts of thee, And press the common air. Thy eyes are gazing upon mine When thou art out of sight; My lips are always touching thine At morning, noon, and night. I think and speak of other things To keep my mind at rest, But still to thee my memory clings Like love in woman's breast. I hide it from the world's wide eye And think and speak contrary, But soft the wind comes from the sky And whispers tales of Mary. The night-wind whispers in my ear, The moon shines on my face; The burden still of chilling fear I find in every place. The breeze is whispering in the bush, And the leaves fall from the tree, All sighing on, and will not hush, Some pleasant tales of thee.
I hid my love when young till ICouldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;I hid my love to my despiteTill I could not bear to look at light:I dare not gaze upon her faceBut left her memory in each place;Where eer I saw a wild flower lieI kissed and bade my love good bye.I met her in the greenest dellsWhere dewdrops pearl the wood blue bellsThe lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye,The bee kissed and went singing by,A sunbeam found a passage there,A gold chain round her neck so fair;As secret as the wild bee's songShe lay there all the summer long.I hid my love in field and townTill een the breeze would knock me down,The bees seemed singing ballads oer,The fly's bass turned a lion's roar;And even silence found a tongue,To haunt me all the summer long;The riddle nature could not proveWas nothing else but secret love.
When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead - When the cloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute - No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee, As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee, Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
I saw thee once - once only - years ago: I must not say how many - but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoeFell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic deathFell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
So sweet the hour, so calm the time,I feel it more than half a crime,When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,To mar the silence ev'n with lute.At rest on ocean's brilliant dyesAn image of Elysium lies:Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,Form in the deep another seven:Endymion nodding from aboveSees in the sea a second love.Within the valleys dim and brown,And on the spectral mountain's crown,The wearied light is dying down,And earth, and stars, and sea, and skyAre redolent of sleep, as IAm redolent of thee and thineEnthralling love, my Adeline.But list, O list, - so soft and lowThy lover's voice tonight shall flow,That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deemMy words the music of a dream.Thus, while no single sound too rudeUpon thy slumber shall intrude,Our thoughts, our souls - O God above!In every deed shall mingle, love.
A flower was offered to me,Such a flower as May never bore;But I said "I've a pretty rose tree,"And I passed the sweet flower o'er.Then I went to my pretty rose tree,To tend her by day and by night;But my rose turned away with jealousy,And her thorns were my only delight.
I laid me down upon a bank, Where Love lay sleeping; I heard among the rushes dank Weeping, weeping. Then I went to the heath and the wild, To the thistles and thorns of the waste; And they told me how they were beguiled, Driven out, and compelled to the chaste. I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen; A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door; So I turned to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tombstones where flowers should be; And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires.
You call it, Love lies bleeding--so you may,Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,As we have seen it here from day to day,From month to month, life passing not away:A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous power)Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bentEarthward in uncomplaining languishmentThe dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!('T is Fancy guides me willing to be led,Though by a slender thread,)So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dewOf his death-wound, when he from innocent airThe gentlest breath of resignation drew;While Venus in a passion of despairRent, weeping over him, her golden hairSpangled with drops of that celestial shower.She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;But pangs more lasting far, that Lover knewWho first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bowerDid press this semblance of unpitied smartInto the service of his constant heart,His own dejection, downcast Flower! could shareWith thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.
Surprised by joy — impatient as the WindI turned to share the transport--Oh! with whomBut Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee? Through what power,Even for the least division of an hour,Have I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss?--That thought's returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.
Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.
When she I loved look'd every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; And, as we climb'd the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopp'd: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropp'd.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! 'O mercy!' to myself I cried, 'If Lucy should be dead!'
He stood beside her in the dawn-- And she his Dawn and she his Spring. From her bright palm she fed her fawn, Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing; Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast Shrill silver calls to hound and dove; Her young locks wove them with the blast. To the flushed azure shrine above The light boughs o'er her golden head Tossed emerald arm and blossom palm; The perfume of their prayer was spread On the sweet wind in breath of balm."Dawn of my heart," he said, "O child, Knit they pure eyes a space with mine: O crystal child eyes, undefiled, Let fair love leap from mine to thine!" "The Dawn is young," she, smiling, said, "Too young for Love's dear joy and woe; Too young to crown her careless head With his ripe roses. Let me go Unquestioned for a longer space; Perchance when day is at the flood In thy true palm I'll gladly place Love's flower in its rounding bud. But now the day is all too young, The Dawn and I are playmates still." She slipped the blossomed boughs among, He strode beyond the violet hill. Again they stand--Imperial Noon Lays her red sceptre on the earth-- Where golden hangings make a gloom, And far-off lutes sing dreamy mirth. The peacocks cry to lily cloud From the white gloss of balustrade; Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud; Tall statues whitely strike the shade And pulse in the dim quivering light Until, most Galatea-wise, Each looks from base of malachite With mystic life in limbs and eyes. Her robe--a golden wave that rose, And burst, and clung as water clings To her long curves--about her flows. Each jewel on her white breast sings Its silent song of sun and fire. No wheeling swallows smite the skies And upward draw the faint desire, Weaving its mystery in her eyes. In the white kisses of the lips Of her long fingers lies a rose: Snow-pale beside her curving lips, Red by her snowy breast it glows."Noon of my soul," said he, "behold The day is ripe, the rose full blown! Love stands in panoply of gold, To Jovian height and strength now grown; No infant he--a king he stands, And pleads with thee for love again!" "Ah, yes!" she said, "in all known lands He kings it--lord of subtlest pain! The moon is full, the rose of fair-- Too fair! 'tis neither white nor red! I know the rose that love should wear Must redden as the heart hath bled! The moon is mellow bright, and I Am happy in its perfect glow. The slanting sun the rose may dye, But for the sweet noon--let me go." She parted--shimmering thro' the shade, Bent the fair splendour of her head. "Would the rich noon were past," he said; "Would the pale rose were flushed to red!" Again. The noon is past and Night Binds on his brow the blood-red Mars; Down dusky vineyards dies the fight, And blazing hamlets slay the stars. Shriek the shrill shells; the heated throats Of thundrous cannon burst; and high Scales the fierce joy of bugle notes The flame-dimmed splendours of the sky. He, dying, lies beside his blade, Clear smiling as a warrior blest With victory smiles; thro' sinister shade Gleams the White Cross upon her breast."Soul of my soul, or is it night Or is it dawn, or is it day? I see no more nor dark nor light, I hear no more the distant fray." "'Tis Dawn," she whispers, "Dawn at last, Bright flushed with love's immortal glow. For me as thee all earth is past! Late loved--well loved--now let us go!"
Of all the spots for making love, Give me a shady dairy,With crimson tiles, and blushing smiles From its presiding fairy;The jolly sunbeams peeping in Thro' vine leaves all a-flutter,Like greetings sent from Phoebus to The Goddess of Fresh Butter.The swallows twittering in the eaves, The air of Summer blowingThro' open door from where a score Of tall rose-trees are growing,A distant file of hollyhocks, A rugged bush of tansy,And nearer yet beside the steps A gorgeous purple pansy;Suggestive scents of new-mown hay, From lowland meadows coming;The distant ripple of a stream, And drowsy sounds of hummingFrom able-bodied bees that bevy About the morning-glory,Or dawdle pleasantly around The apple-blossoms hoary.A rosy bloom pervades the spot; And where the shadows darkle,In glittering rows the shining pans Show many a brilliant sparkle.As snowy as my lady's throat, Or classic marble urn,In central floor there proudly stands The scourèd white-wood churn.And she who reigns o'er churn and pan-- In truth, my friend, between us,My dimpled Chloe is more fair Than Milo's famous Venus.Mark, mark those eyes so arch and dark, Those lips like crimson clover,And ask yourself, as well you may, How I could prove a rover.Talk not to me of moonlit groves, Of empress, belle, or fairy;To me the fairest love of loves Is Chloe of the Dairy.
It's such a little thing to weep,So short a thing to sigh;And yet by trades the size of theseWe men and women die!
It's all I have to bring today--This, and my heart beside--This, and my heart, and all the fields--And all the meadows wide--Be sure you count--should I forgetSome one the sum could tell--This, and my heart, and all the BeesWhich in the Clover dwell.
To lose thee, sweeter than to gainAll other hearts I knew.‘Tis true the drought is destituteBut, then, I had the dew! The Caspian has its realms of sand,Its other realm of sea.Without this sterile perquisiteNo Caspian could be.
Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
Heart, we will forget him!You an I, tonight!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell meThat I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you're lagging.I may remember him!
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky. Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear! When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my said orison rolls, I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms Like fairy gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art Let thy loveliness fade as it will And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known To which time will but make thee more dear. No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets But as truly loves on to the close As the sunflower turns to her God when he sets The same look which she turned when he rose.
I am free of love as a bird flying south in the autumn,Swift and intent, asking no joy from another,Glad to forget all of the passion of AprilEre it was love-free. I am free of love, and I listen to music lightly,But if he returned, if he should look at me deeply,I should awake, I should awake and rememberI am my lover’s.
Brown-thrush singing all day longIn the leaves above me,Take my love this April song,"Love me, love me, love me!"
When he harkens what you say,Bid him, lest he miss me,Leave his work or leave his play,And kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!
I hoped that he would love me,And he has kissed my mouth,But I am like a stricken birdThat cannot reach the south.
For though I know he loves me,To-night my heart is sad;His kiss was not so wonderfulAs all the dreams I had.
OH! young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none. He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none, But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,-- For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,-- 'Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'-- 'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.' The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-- 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride -- maidens whispered ''Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.' One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
I thought once how Theocritus had sungOf the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,Who each one in a gracious hand appearsTo bear a gift for mortals, old or young:And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,Those of my own life, who by turns had flungA shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,So weeping, how a mystic Shape did moveBehind me, and drew me backward by the hair;And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—"Guess now who holds thee!"—"Death," I said, But, there,The silver answer rang, "Not Death, but Love."
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love:A violet by a mosy toneHalf hidden from the eye!---Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, oh,The difference to me!
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red than her lips' red;If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damasked, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound;I grant I never saw a goddess go;My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimmed;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed;But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved
Love is enough: though the World be a-waning,And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass'd over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid!Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face.
For her gait if she be walking, Be she sitting I desire her For her state's sake, and admire her For her wit if she be talking: Gait and state and wit approve her; For which all and each I love her.
Be she sullen, I commend her For a modest; be she merry, For a kind one her prefer I. Briefly, everything doth lend her So much grace and so approve her That for everything I love her.
Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears, Ah! she did depart!
Soon after she was gone from me A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly, He took her with a sigh.
1I sing the body electric,The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.
Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the bodywere not the soul, what is the soul?
2The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.
The expression of the face balks account,But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.
The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and from the heave of the water,The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horse-man in his saddle,Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,The female soothing a child, the farmer's daughter in the garden or cow-yard,The young fellow hosing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd,The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown after work,The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv'd neck and the counting;Such-like I love- I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother's breast with the little child,Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Why did you give no hint that nightThat quickly after the morrow's dawn,And calmly, as if indifferent quite,You would close your term here, up and be gone Where I could not follow With wing of swallowTo gain one glimpse of you ever anon!
Never to bid good-bye Or lip me the softest call,Or utter a wish for a word, while ISaw morning harden upon the wall, Unmoved, unknowing That your great goingHad place that moment, and altered all.
Why do you make me leave the houseAnd think for a breath it is you I seeAt the end of the alley of bending boughsWhere so often at dusk you used to be; Till in darkening dankness The yawning blanknessOf the perspective sickens me!
You were she who abode By those red-veined rocks far West,You were the swan-necked one who rodeAlong the beetling Beeny Crest, And, reining nigh me, Would muse and eye me,While Life unrolled us its very best.
Why, then, latterly did we not speak,Did we not think of those days long dead,And ere your vanishing strive to seekThat time's renewal? We might have said, "In this bright spring weather We'll visit togetherThose places that once we visited."
Well, well! All's past amend, Unchangeable. It must go.I seem but a dead man held on endTo sink down soon. . . . O you could not know That such swift fleeing No soul foreseeing -Not even I - would undo me so!
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Sever’d at last by Time’s all-severing wave?Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild DecembersFrom those brown hills have melted into spring:Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world’s tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!No later light has lighten’d up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d,Strengthen’d and fed without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?
Ah, God, the way your little finger moved As you thrust a bare arm backward And made play with your hair And a comb a silly gilt comb Ah, God—that I should suffer Because of the way a little finger moved.
If all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd's tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,And Philomel becometh dumb;The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward winter reckoning yields;A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posiesSoon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,--In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,The coral clasps and amber studs,All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last and love still breed,Had joys no date nor age no need,Then these delights my mind might moveTo live with thee and be thy love.
Queen Virtue's court, which some call Stella's face, Prepar'd by Nature's choicest furniture, Hath his front built of alabaster pure; Gold in the covering of that stately place.
The door by which sometimes comes forth her Grace Red porphir is, which lock of pearl makes sure, Whose porches rich (which name of cheeks endure) Marble mix'd red and white do interlace.
The windows now through which this heav'nly guest Looks o'er the world, and can find nothing such, Which dare claim from those lights the name of best,
Of touch they are that without touch doth touch, Which Cupid's self from Beauty's mine did draw: Of touch they are, and poor I am their straw.
Dear, I to thee this diamond commend, In which a model of thyself I send. How just unto thy joints this circlet sitteth, So just thy face and shape my fancy fitteth. The touch will try this ring of purest gold, My touch tries thee, as pure though softer mold. That metal precious is, the stone is true, As true, and then how much more precious you. The gem is clear, and hath nor needs no foil, Thy face, nay more, thy fame is free from soil. You'll deem this dear, because from me you have it, I deem your faith more dear, because you gave it. This pointed diamond cuts glass and steel, Your love's like force in my firm heart I feel. But this, as all things else, time wastes with wearing, Where you my jewels multiply with bearing.
Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea;How long they kiss in sight of all the lands, Ah! longer, longer we.
Now, in the sea's red vintage melts the sun As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wineAnd Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done, Love, lay thine hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart, Glimmer, ye waves, 'round else unlighted sands;Oh night! divorce our sun and sky apart Never our lips, our hands.
And in Life's noisiest hour,There whispers still the ceaseless Love of Thee,The heart's Self-solace and soliloquy.
You mould my Hopes, you fashion me within; And to the leading Love-throb in the Heart Thro' all my Being, thro' my pulse's beat; You lie in all my many Thoughts, like Light, Like the fair light of Dawn, or summer Eve On rippling Stream, or cloud-reflecting Lake.
And looking to the Heaven, that bends above you,How oft! I bless the Lot that made me love you.
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flowsThe liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and seeThat brave vibration each way free,Oh, how that glittering taketh me!
Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be;Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free,As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honor thy decrees;Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see;And, having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree;Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me;And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.
I wonder do you feel today As I have felt since, hand in hand,We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land,This morn of Rome and May?
For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized me many times,(Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymesTo catch at and let go.
Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seedThere, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weedTook up the floating weft,
Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles—blind and green they gropeAmong the honey-meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slopeI traced it. Hold it fast!
The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere!Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air—Rome's ghost since her decease.
Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play,Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting nature have her wayWhile heaven looks from its towers!
How say you? Let us, O my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul,As earth lies bare to heaven above! How is it under our controlTo love or not to love?
I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more.Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the coreO' the wound, since wound must be?
I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heartBeating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs—your part my partIn life, for good and ill.
No. I yearn upward, touch you close, Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,Catch your soul's warmth—I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak—Then the good minute goes.
Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I goStill like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow,Fixed by no friendly star?
Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again!The old trick! Only I discern— Infinite passion, and the painOf finite hearts that yearn.
Escape me?Never—Beloved!While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth,While the one eludes, must the other pursue.My life is a fault at last, I fear:It seems too much like a fate, indeed!Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed.But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain,To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall,And baffled, get up to begin again,—So the chase takes up one's life, that's all.While, look but once from your farthest bound,At me so deep in the dust and dark,No sooner the old hope drops to groundThan a new one, straight to the selfsame mark,I shape me—EverRemoved!
I have loved flowers that fade, Within whose magic tents Rich hues have marriage made With sweet unmemoried scents: A honeymoon delight—A joy of love at sight, That ages in an hour—My song be like a flower!
I have loved airs that die Before their charm is writ Along a liquid sky Trembling to welcome it. Notes, that with pulse of fire Proclaim the spirit's desire, Then die, and are nowhere—My song be like an air!
Die, song, die like a breath, And wither as a bloom; Fear not a flowery death, Dread not an airy tomb! Fly with delight, fly hence! 'Twas thine love's tender sense To feast; now on thy bier Beauty shall shed a tear.
Amarantha sweet and fairAh braid no more that shining hair! As my curious hand or eyeHovering round thee let it fly.
Let it fly as unconfin'dAs its calm ravisher, the wind, Who hath left his darling th'East,To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Ev'ry tress must be confestBut neatly tangled at the best; Like a clue of golden thread,Most excellently ravelled.
Do not then wind up that lightIn ribands, and o'er-cloud in night; Like the sun in's early ray,But shake your head and scatter day. See 'tis broke! Within this groveThe bower, and the walks of love, Weary lie we down and rest,And fan each other's panting breast.
Here we'll strip and cool our fireIn cream below, in milk-baths higher: And when all wells are drawn dry,I'll drink a tear out of thine eye,
Which our very joys shall leaveThat sorrows thus we can deceive; Or our very sorrows weep,That joys so ripe, so little keep.
Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good-fame, Plans, credit, and the Muse,— Nothing refuse.
'Tis a brave master; Let it have scope: Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope: High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent, Untold intent; But it is a God, Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky.
It was never for the mean; It requireth courage stout. Souls above doubt, Valor unbending, It will reward,— They shall return More than they were, And ever ascending.
Leave all for love; Yet, hear me, yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavor,— Keep thee to-day, To-morrow, forever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise, First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young, Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know, When half-gods go, The gods survive.
I loved her for that she was beautiful; And that to me she seem'd to be all Nature, And all varieties of things in one: Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise All light and laughter in the morning; fear No petty customs nor appearances; But think what others only dream'd about; And say what others did but think; and do What others dared not do: so pure withal In soul; in heart and act such conscious yet Such perfect innocence, she made round her A halo of delight. 'Twas these which won me;—And that she never school'd within her breast One thought or feeling, but gave holiday To all; and that she made all even mine In the communion of love: and we Grew like each other, for we loved each other; She, mild and generous as the air in spring; And I, like earth all budding out with love.
Whose is the love that, gleaming through the world,Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn? Whose is the warm and partial praise, Virtue's most sweet reward?
Beneath whose looks did my reviving soulRiper in truth and virtuous daring grow? Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on, And loved mankind the more?
Harriet! on thine:—thou wert my purer mind;Thou wert the inspiration of my song; Thine are these early wilding flowers, Though garlanded by me.
Then press into thy breast this pledge of love;And know, though time may change and years may roll, Each floweret gathered in my heart It consecrates to thine.
I pray thee, leave, love me no more, Call home the heart you gave me! I but in vain that saint adore That can but will not save me. These poor half-kisses kill me quite— Was ever man thus servèd? Amidst an ocean of delight For pleasure to be starvèd? Show me no more those snowy breasts With azure riverets branchèd,Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, Yet is my thirst not stanchèd; O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell! By me thou art prevented: 'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, But thus in Heaven tormented. Clip me no more in those dear arms, Nor thy life's comfort call me, O these are but too powerful charms, And do but more enthral me!But see how patient I am grown In all this coil about thee: Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, I cannot live without thee!
Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again! For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, A messenger from radiant climes, And smile on thy new world, and be As kind to others as to me!
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, Come now, and let me dream it truth; And part my hair, and kiss my brow, And say: My love! why sufferest thou?
I
If I were her lover, I'd wade through the clover Over the fields before The gate that leads to her door; Over the meadows, To wait, 'mid the shadows, The shadows that circle her door, For the heart of my heart and more. And there in the clover Close by her, Over and over I'd sigh her: "Your eyes are as brown As the Night's, looking down On waters that sleep With the moon in their deep" . . .If I were her lover to sigh her.
II
If I were her lover, I'd wade through the clover Over the fields before The lane that leads to her door; I'd wait, 'mid the thickets, Or there by the pickets, White pickets that fence in her door, For the life of my life and more. I'd lean in the clover— The crisper For the dews that are over— And whisper: "Your lips are as rare As the dewberries there, As ripe and as red, On the honey-dew fed" . . .If I were her lover to whisper.
III
If I were her lover, I'd wade through the clover Over the field before The pathway that leads to her door; And watch, in the twinkle Of stars that sprinkle The paradise over her door, For the soul of my soul and more. And there in the clover I'd reach her; And over and over I'd teach her—A love without sighs, Of laughterful eyes, That reckoned each second The pause of a kiss, A kiss and . . . that is If I were her lover to teach her.
Love not me for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face;Nor for any outward part,No, nor for my constant heart: For those may fail or turn to ill, So thou and I shall sever.Keep therefore a true woman's eye,And love me still, but know not why; So hast thou the same reason still To doat upon me ever.
You say you love; but with a voice Chaster than a nun's, who singeth The soft vespers to herself While the chime-bell ringeth— O love me truly!
You say you love; but with a smile Cold as sunrise in September, As you were Saint Cupid's nun, And kept his weeks of Ember— O love me truly!
You say you love; but then your lips Coral tinted teach no blisses,More than coral in the sea— They never pout for kisses— O love me truly!
You say you love; but then your hand No soft squeeze for squeeze returneth;It is, like a statue's, dead,— While mine to passion burneth— O love me truly!
O breathe a word or two of fire! Smile, as if those words should burn me,Squeeze as lovers should—O kiss And in thy heart inurn me— O love me truly!
Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks. There will the river whisp'ring run Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun ; And there th' enamour'd fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath, Will amorously to thee swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth, By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both, And if myself have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee. Let others freeze with angling reeds, And cut their legs with shells and weeds, Or treacherously poor fish beset, With strangling snare, or windowy net. Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest The bedded fish in banks out-wrest ; Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies, Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes. For thee, thou need'st no such deceit, For thou thyself art thine own bait : That fish, that is not catch'd thereby, Alas ! is wiser far than I.
Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee,Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that IMust die at last, 'tis bestTo use myself in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence, And yet is here today;He hath no desire nor sense, Nor half so short a way: Then fear not me,But believe that I shall makeSpeedier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he.
O how feeble is man's power, That if good fortune fall,Cannot add another hour, Nor a lost hour recall! But come bad chance,And we join to it our strength,And we teach it art and length, Itself o'er us to advance.
When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, But sigh'st my soul away;When thou weep'st, unkindly kind, My life's blood doth decay. It cannot beThat thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,If in thine my life thou waste, That art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart Forethink me any ill;Destiny may take thy part, And may thy fears fulfil; But think that weAre but turn'd aside to sleep;They who one another keep Alive, ne'er parted be.
As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go,Whilst some of their sad friends do say, "The breath goes now," and some say, "No,"So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love.Moving of the earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did and meant;But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent.Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admitAbsence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it.But we, by a love so much refined That our selves know not what it is,Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yetA breach, but an expansion. Like gold to airy thinness beat.If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two:Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do;And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam,It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home.Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like the other foot, obliquely run;Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.
I hid my love when young while ICouldn't bear the buzzing of a flyI hid my love to my despiteTill I could not bear to look at lightI dare not gaze upon her faceBut left her memory in each placeWhere ere I saw a wild flower lieI kissed and bade my love goodbye
I met her in the greenest dellsWhere dew drops pearl the wood bluebellsThe lost breeze kissed her bright blue eyeThe bee kissed and went singing byA sunbeam found a passage thereA gold chain round her neck so fairAs secret as the wild bee's songShe lay there all the summer long
I hid my love in field and townTill e'en the breeze would knock me downThe bees seemed singing ballads l'erThe fly's buss turned a Lion's roarAnd even silence found a tongueTo haunt me all the summer longThe riddle nature could not proveWas nothing else but secret love
I sleep with thee, and wake with thee, And yet thou art not there; I fill my arms with thoughts of thee, And press the common air. Thy eyes are gazing upon mine When thou art out of sight; My lips are always touching thine At morning, noon, and night.
I think and speak of other things To keep my mind at rest, But still to thee my memory clings Like love in woman's breast. I hide it from the world's wide eye And think and speak contrary, But soft the wind comes from the sky And whispers tales of Mary.
The night-wind whispers in my ear, The moon shines on my face; The burden still of chilling fear I find in every place. The breeze is whispering in the bush, And the leaves fall from the tree, All sighing on, and will not hush, Some pleasant tales of thee.
I ne'er was struck before that hourWith love so sudden and so sweet.Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale, a deadly pale.My legs refused to walk away,And when she looked what could I ailMy life and all seemed turned to clay. And then my blood rushed to my face And took my eyesight quite away.The trees and bushes round the place Seemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing,Words from my eyes did start.They spoke as chords do from the string,And blood burnt round my heart. Are flowers the winter's choiceIs love's bed always snowShe seemed to hear my silent voice Not love appeals to know. I never saw so sweet a faceAs that I stood before.My heart has left its dwelling placeAnd can return no more.
I grow so weary, someway, of all thingsThat love and loving have vouchsafed to me,Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasyAm I possessed of: The caress that clings—The lips that mix with mine with murmuringsNo language may interpret, and the free,Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrilyFeasting in swarms on honeyed blossomingsOf passion's fullest flower—For yet I missThe essence that alone makes love divine—The subtle flavoring no tang of this Weak wine of melody may here define:—A something found and lost in the first kissA lover ever poured through lips of mine.
Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in. Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I'm weary, say I'm sad; Say that health and wealth have missed me; Say I'm growing old, but add— Jenny kissed me!
My lady's presence makes the roses red,Because to see her lips they blush for shame.The lily's leaves, for envy, pale became,And her white hands in them this envy bred.The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,Because the sun's and her power is the same.The violet of purple colour came.Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.In brief: all flowers from her their virtue take;From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;The living heat which her eyebeams doth makeWarmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.The rain, wherewith she watereth the flowers,Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers.
Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly, White as the sun, fair as the lily, Heigh ho, how I do love thee! I do love thee as my lambs Are belovëd of their dams— How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me!
Diaphenia, like the spreading roses, That in thy sweets all sweets incloses, Fair sweet, how I do love thee! I do love thee as each flower Loves the sun's life-giving power, For, dead, thy breath to life might move me.
Diaphenia, like to all things blessed, When all thy praises are expressëd, Dear joy, how I do love thee! As the birds do love the spring, Or the bees their careful king,— Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
That so much change should come when thou dost go,Is mystery that I cannot ravel quite.The very house seems dark as when the lightOf lamps goes out. Each wonted thing doth growSo altered, that I wander to and froBewildered by the most familiar sight,And feel like one who rouses in the nightFrom dream of ecstasy, and cannot knowAt first if he be sleeping or awake.My foolish heart so foolish for thy sakeHath grown, dear one!Teach me to be more wise.I blush for all my foolishness doth lack;I fear to seem a coward in thine eyes.Teach me, dear one,—but first thou must come back!
She is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be,Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me;O, then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light!
But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne'er reply,And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin.But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in,Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lacked anything. "A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here": Love said, "You shall be he.""I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on thee."Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?" "Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve.""And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?" "My dear, then I will serve.""You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat." So I did sit and eat.
When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-hearted,To sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this.The dew of the morningSank chill on my browIt felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame:I hear thy name spoken,And share in its shame.They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er meWhy wert thou so dear?They know not I knew thee,Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue theeToo deeply to tell.In secret we metIn silence I grieveThat thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?With silence and tears.
1She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.2One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place.3And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
Thou, with thy looks, on whom I look full oft, And find therein great cause of deep delight, Thy face is fair, thy skin is smooth and soft, Thy lips are sweet, thine eyes are clear and bright, And every part seems pleasant in my sight; Yet wote thou well, those looks have wrought my woe,Because I love to look upon them so.
For first those looks allured mine eye to look, And straight mine eye stirred up my heart to love; And cruel love, with deep deceitful hook, Choked up my mind, whom fancy cannot move, Nor hope relieve, nor other help behoove But still to look; and though I look too much, Needs must I look because I see none such.
Thus in thy looks my love and life have hold; And with such life my death draws on apace: And for such death no med'cine can be told But looking still upon thy lovely face, Wherein are painted pity, peace, and grace. Then though thy looks should cause me for to die, Needs must I look, because I live thereby.
Since then thy looks my life have so in thrall As I can like none other looks but thine, Lo, here I yield my life, my love, and all Into thy hands, and all things else resign But liberty to gaze upon thine eyen:Which when I do, then think it were thy part To look again, and link with me in heart.
The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one;Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done.
Accept, dear girl, this little token,   And if between the lines you seek,You'll find the love I've often spoken-   The love my dying lips shall speak.Our little ones are making merry   O'er am'rous ditties rhymed in jest,But in these words (though awkward-very)   The genuine article's expressed.You are as fair and sweet and tender,   Dear brown-eyed little sweetheart mine,As when, a callow youth and slender,   I asked to be your Valentine.
What though these years of ours be fleeting?   What though the years of youth be flown?I'll mock old Tempus with repeating,   "I love my love and her alone!"And when I fall before his reaping,   And when my stuttering speech is dumb,Think not my love is dead or sleeping,   But that it waits for you to come.So take, dear love, this little token,   And if there speaks in any lineThe sentiment I'd fain have spoken,   Say, will you kiss your Valentine?
I gave myself to him,And took himself for pay.The solemn contract of a lifeWas ratified this wayThe value might disappoint,Myself a poorer proveThan this my purchaser suspect,The daily own of LoveDepreciates the sight;But, 'til the merchant buy,Still fabled, in the isles of spiceThe subtle cargoes lie.At least, 'tis mutual risk,Some found it mutual gain;Sweet debt of Life, each night to owe,Insolvent, every noon.
Love is like the wild rose-briar,Friendship like the holly-tree -The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms'But which will bloom most constantly?The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,It's summer blossoms scent the air.Yet wait till winter comes againAnd who will call the wild-briar fair?Then scorn the silly rose-wreath nowAnd deck thee with the holly's sheen,That when December blights thy browHe still may leave thy garland green.
Yet, gentle shade! whether thou now does rove,Thro' some blest vale, or ever verdant grove,One moment listen to my grief and takeThe softest vows that ever love can make.For thee, all thoughts of pleasure I forgo,For Thee, my tears shall never cease to flow;For thee at once I from the world retire,To feed in silent shades a hopeless fire.My bosom all thy image shall retain,The full impression there shall still remainAs thou has taught my tender heart to proveThe noblest height and elegance of love,That sacred passion I to thee confine.My spotless faith shall be for ever thine.
At last, when all the summer shine  That warmed life's early hours is past,Your loving fingers seek for mine  And hold them close at last at last!Not oft the robin comes to build  Its nest upon the leafless boughBy autumn robbed, by winter chilled,  But you, dear heart, you love me now.Though there are shadows on my brow  And furrows on my cheek, in truth,The marks where Time's remorseless plough  Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,Though fled is every girlish grace  Might win or hold a lover's vow,Despite my sad and faded face,  And darkened heart, you love me now!I count no more my wasted tears;  They left no echo of their fall;I mourn no more my lonesome years;  This blessed hour atones for all.I fear not all that Time or Fate  May bring to burden heart or brow,Strong in the love that came so late,  Our souls shall keep it always now!
I leave thee for awhile, my love, I leave thee with a sigh; The fountain spring within my soul is playing in mine eye; I do not blush to own the tear, let, let it touch my cheek, And what my lip has failed to tell, that drop perchance may speak. Mavourneen! when again I seek my green isle in the West, Oh, promise thou wilt share my lot, and set this heart at rest.
I leave thee for awhile, my love; but every hour will be Uncheered and lonely till the one that brings me back to thee. I go to make my riches more; but where is man to find A vein of gold so rich and pure as that I leave behind? Mavourneen! though my home might be the fairest earth possessed, Till thou wouldst share and make it warm, this heart would know no rest.
I leave thee for awhile, my love; my cheek is cold and white, But ah, I see a promise stand within thy glance of light; When next I seek old, Erin's shore, thy step will bless it too, And then the grass will seem more green, the sky will have more blue. Mavourneen! first and dearest loved, there's sunshine in my breast, For thou wilt share my future lot, and set this heart at rest.
I love thee, as I love the calm Of sweet, star-lighted hours! I love thee, as I love the balm Of early jes'mine flow'rs. I love thee, as I love the last Rich smile of fading day, Which lingereth, like the look we cast, On rapture pass'd away. I love thee as I love the tone Of some soft-breathing flute Whose soul is wak'd for me alone, When all beside is mute. I love thee as I love the first Young violet of the spring; Or the pale lily, April-nurs'd, To scented blossoming. I love thee, as I love the full, Clear gushings of the song, Which lonely--sad--and beautiful-- At night-fall floats along, Pour'd by the bul-bul forth to greet The hours of rest and dew; When melody and moonlight meet To blend their charm, and hue. I love thee, as the glad bird loves The freedom of its wing, On which delightedly it moves In wildest wandering. I love thee as I love the swell, And hush, of some low strain, Which bringeth, by its gentle spell, The past to life again. Such is the feeling which from thee Nought earthly can allure: 'Tis ever link'd to all I see Of gifted--high--and pure!
Go, lovely rose!Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows,When I resemble her to thee,How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young,And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprungIn deserts, where no men abide,Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worthOf beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth,Suffer herself to be desired,And not blush so to be admired.
Then die! that sheThe common fate of all things rare May read in thee;How small a part of time they shareThat are so wondrous sweet and fair!
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay A mortal thing so to immortalize! For I myself shall like to this decay, And eek my name be wiped out likewise. Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name; Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.
My love is like to ice, and I to fire: How comes it then that this her cold is so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat?Or how comes it that my exceeding heat Is not allayed by her heart frozen cold, But that I burn much more in boiling sweat, And feel my flames augmented manifold?What more miraculous thing may be told, That fire which all things melts should harden ice: And ice which is congealed with senseless cold, Should kindle fire by wonderful device?Such is the power of love in gentle mind, That it can alter all the course of kind.
There is something about DeathLike love itself!If with some one with whom you have known passion,And the glow of youthful love,You also, after years of life Together, feel the sinking of the fire,And thus fade away together,Gradually, faintly, delicately,As it were in each other's arms,Passing from the familiar room --That is a power of unison between soulsLike love itself!
Take this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow:You are not wrong who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand--How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep,While I weep--while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?
The blessed damozel leaned out        From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth        Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand,        And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,        No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift,        For service meetly worn; Her hair that lay along her back        Was yellow like ripe corn. Herseemed she scarce had been a day        One of God's choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone        From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day        Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years.         . . . Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair        Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves.        The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house        That she was standing on; By God built over the sheer depth        The which is Space begun; So high, that looking downward thence        She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, across the flood        Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night        With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth        Spins like a fretful midge.
Around her, lovers, newly met        'Mid deathless love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among themselves        Their heart-remembered names; And the souls mounting up to God        Went by her like thin flames. And still she bowed herself and stooped        Out of the circling charm; Until her bosom must have made        The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep        Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw        Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove        Within the gulf to pierce Its path; and now she spoke as when        The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now; the curled moon        Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now        She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice of the stars        Had when they sang together. (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song,        Strove not her accents there, Fain to be hearkened? When those bells        Possessed the mid-day air, Strove not her steps to reach my side        Down all the echoing stair?) 'I wish that he were come to me,        For he will come,' she said.        Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? Are not two prayers a perfect strength?        And shall I feel afraid? 'When round his head the aureole clings,        And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand and go with him        To the deep wells of light; As unto a stream we will step down,        And bathe there in God's sight. 'We two will stand beside that shrine,        Occult, withheld, untrod,
Whose lamps are stirred continually        With prayer sent up to God; And see our old prayers, granted, melt        Each like a little cloud. 'We two will lie i' the shadow of        That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove        Is sometimes felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch        Saith His Name audibly. 'And I myself will teach to him,        I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here; which his voice        Shall pause in, hushed and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause,        Or some new thing to know.' (Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st!        Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift        To endless unity        Was but its love for thee?)
'We two,' she said, 'will seek the groves        Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names        Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,        Margaret and Rosalys. 'Circlewise sit they, with bound locks        And foreheads garlanded; Into the fine cloth white like flame        Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them        Who are just born, being dead. 'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:        Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love,        Not once abashed or weak: And the dear Mother will approve        My pride, and let me speak. 'Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,        To him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads        Bowed with their aureoles:
And angels meeting us shall sing        To their citherns and citoles. 'There will I ask of Christ the Lord        Thus much for him and me: — Only to live as once on earth        With Love, — only to be, As then awhile, for ever now        Together, I and he.' She gazed and listened and then said,        Less sad of speech than mild, — 'All this is when he comes.' She ceased.        The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight.        Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path        Was vague in distant spheres: And then she cast her arms along        The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands,        And wept. (I heard her tears.)
I stood where Love in brimming armfuls bore Slight wanton flowers and foolish toys of fruit: And round him ladies thronged in warm pursuit, Fingered and lipped and proffered the strange store. And from one hand the petal and the core Savoured of sleep; and cluster and curled shoot Seemed from another hand like shame's salute,Gifts that I felt my cheek was blushing for.
At last Love bade my Lady give the same: And as I looked, the dew was light thereon; And as I took them, at her touch they shone With inmost heaven-hue of the heart of flame. And then Love said: "Lo! when the hand is hers, Follies of love are love's true ministers."
The sweetest notes among the human heart-strings are dull with rust; The sweetest chords, adjusted by the angels, are clogged with dust; We pipe and pipe again our dreary music upon the self-same strains, While sounds of crime, and fear, and desolation, come back in sad refrains.
On through the world we go, an army marching with listening ears, Each longing, sighing, for the heavenly music he never hears; Each longing, sighing, for a word of comfort, a word of tender praise, A word of love, to cheer the endless journey of earth's hard, busy days.
They love us, and we know it; this suffices for reason's share. Why should they pause to give that love expression with gentle care? Why should they pause? But still our hearts are aching with all the gnawing pain Of hungry love that longs to hear the music, and longs and longs in vain.
We love them, and they know it; if we falter, with fingers numb, Among the unused strings of love's expression, the notes are dumb. We shrink within ourselves in voiceless sorrow, leaving the words unsaid, And, side by side with those we love the dearest, in silence on we tread.
Thus on we tread, and thus each heart in silence its fate fulfils, Waiting and hoping for the heavenly music beyond the distant hills. The only difference of the love in heaven from love on earth below Is: Here we love and know not how to tell it, and there we all shall know.
Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory of hope, love of finished years.
O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brim-full of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death; Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago.
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth!Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth.As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty;And enamour'd, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth!Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her;And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the faceAs alone there triumphs to the lifeAll the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it?Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it?Ha' you felt the wool o' the beaver? Or swan's down ever?Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she!
Drink to me, only, with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st back to me: Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.
How strong does my passion flow,Divided equally twixt two?Damon had ne'er subdued my heartHad not Alexis took his part;Nor could Alexis powerful prove,Without my Damon's aid, to gain my love.
When my Alexis present is,Then I for Damon sigh and mourn;But when Alexis I do miss,Damon gains nothing but my scorn.But if it chance they both are by,For both alike I languish, sigh, and die.
Cure then, thou might wing'd god, This restless fever in my blood; One golden-pointed dart take back: But which, O Cupid, wilt thou take? If Damon's, all my hopes are crossed; Or that of my Alexis, I am lost.
Love in Fantastique Triumph satt, Whilst bleeding Hearts around him flow'd, For whom Fresh pains he did create, And strange Tryanic power he show'd; From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire, Which round about, in sport he hurl'd; But 'twas from mine he took desire, Enough to undo the Amorous World. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his Pride and Crueltie; From me his Languishments and Feares, And every Killing Dart from thee; Thus thou and I, the God have arm'd, And sett him up a Deity; But my poor Heart alone is harm'd, Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.
Come away, come, sweet love, The golden morning breaks,All the earth, all the air Of love and pleasure speaks, Teach thine arms then to embrace, And sweet rosy lips to kiss, And mix our souls in mutual bliss. Eyes were made for beauty's grace, Viewing, rueing love's long pain, Procur'd by beauty's rude disdain.
Come away, come, sweet love, The golden morning wastes, While the sun from his sphere His fiery arrows casts: Making all the shadows fly, Playing, staying in the grove, To entertain the stealth of love, Thither, sweet love, let us hie, Flying, dying, in desire, Wing'd with sweet hopes and heav'nly fire.
Come away, come, sweet love,Do not in vain adornBeauty's grace that should riseLike to the naked morn:Lilies on the river's side,And fair Cyprian flowers new blown,Desire no beauties but their own,Ornament is nurse of pride, Pleasure, measure, love's delight, Haste then, sweet love, our wished flight.
Love me little, love me long,Is the burden of my song.Love that is too hot and strong Burneth soon to waste.Still, I would not have thee cold,Not too backward, nor too bold;Love that lasteth till 'tis old Fadeth not in haste. Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song.
If thou lovest me too much,It will not prove as true as touch;Love me little, more than such, For I fear the end.I am with little well content,And a little from thee sentIs enough, with true intent To be steadfast friend. Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song.
Say thou lov'st me while thou live;I to thee my love will give,Never dreaming to deceive Whiles that life endures.Nay, and after death, in sooth,I to thee will keep my truth,As now, when in my May of youth; This my love assures. Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song.
Constant love is moderate ever,And it will through life persever;Give me that, with true endeavor I will it restore.A suit of durance let it be,For all weathers that for me,For the land or for the sea, Lasting evermore. Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song.
Winter's cold, or summer's heat,Autumn's tempests on it beat,It can never know defeat, Never can rebel.Such the love that I would gain,Such the love, I tell thee plain,Thou must give, or woo in vain; So to thee, farewell! Love me little, love me long, Is the burden of my song.
If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee; If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me ye women if you can. I prize thy love more then whole mines of gold, Or all the riches that the East doth hold. My love is such that rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee, give recompence. Thy love is such I can no way repay, The heavens reward thee manifold I pray. Then while we live, in love let's so persevere, That when we live no more, we may live ever.
My love is of a birth as rare As 'tis for object strange and high; It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone Could show me so divine a thing Where feeble Hope could ne'er have flown, But vainly flapp'd its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixt, But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close; Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrannic pow'r depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant poles have plac'd, (Though love's whole world on us doth wheel) Not by themselves to be embrac'd;
Unless the giddy heaven fall, And earth some new convulsion tear; And, us to join, the world should all Be cramp'd into a planisphere.
As lines, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet; But ours so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind, But Fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars.
All day long I have been working,Now I am tired.I call:“Where are you?”But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind.The house is very quiet,The sun shines in on your books,On your scissors and thimble just put down,But you are not there.Suddenly I am lonely:Where are you?I go about searching.Then I see you,Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,With a basket of roses on your arm.You are cool, like silver,And you smile.I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.You tell me that the peonies need spraying,That the columbines have overrun all bounds,That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded.You tell me these things.But I look at you, heart of silver,White heart-flame of polished silver,Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur,And I long to kneel instantly at your feet,While all about us peal the loud,sweet Te Deums of the Canterbury bells.
Light, so low upon earth, You send a flash to the sun.Here is the golden close of love, All my wooing is done.Oh, the woods and the meadows, Woods where we hid from the wet,Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, Meadows in which we met!
Light, so low in the vale You flash and lighten afar,For this is the golden morning of love, And you are his morning star.Flash, I am coming, I come, By meadow and stile and wood,Oh, lighten into my eyes and heart, Into my heart and my blood!
Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires?O' heart, are you great enough for love? I have heard of thorns and briers,Over the meadow and stiles, Over the world to the end of itFlash for a million miles.
Soul, heart, and body, we thus singly name, Are not in love divisible and distinct, But each with each inseparably link'd. One is not honour, and the other shame, But burn as closely fused as fuel, heat, and flame.
They do not love who give the body and keep The heart ungiven; nor they who yield the soul, And guard the body. Love doth give the whole; Its range being high as heaven, as ocean deep, Wide as the realms of air or planet's curving sweep.
So, I shall see her in three daysAnd just one night, but nights are short,Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn!Feel, where my life broke off from thine,How fresh the splinters keep and fine---Only a touch and we combine!Too long, this time of year, the days!But nights, at least the nights are short.As night shows where ger one moon is,A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss,So life's night gives my lady birthAnd my eyes hold her! What is worthThe rest of heaven, the rest of earth?O loaded curls, release your storeOf warmth and scent, as once beforeThe tingling hair did, lights and darksOutbreaking into fairy sparks,When under curl and curl I priedAfter the warmth and scent inside,Thro' lights and darks how manifold---The dark inspired, the light controlledAs early Art embrowns the gold.What great fear, should one say, "Three days"That change the world might change as well"Your fortune; and if joy delays,"Be happy that no worse befell!''What small fear, if another says,"Three days and one short night beside"May throw no shadow on your ways;"But years must teem with change untried,"With chance not easily defied,"With an end somewhere undescried.''No fear!---or if a fear be bornThis minute, it dies out in scorn.Fear? I shall see her in three daysAnd one night, now the nights are short,Then just two hours, and that is morn.
She should never have looked at meIf she meant I should not love her!There are plenty ... men, you call such,I suppose ... she may discoverAll her soul to, if she pleases,And yet leave much as she found them:But I'm not so, and she knew itWhen she fixed me, glancing round them,What? To fix me thus meant nothing?But I can't tell (there's my weakness)What her look said!---no vile cant, sure,About ``need to strew the bleakness``Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed. ``That the sea feels''---no strange yearning``That such souls have, most to lavish``Where there's chance of least returning.''Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows!But not quite so sunk that moments,Sure tho' seldom, are denied us,When the spirit's true endowmentsStand out plainly from its false ones,And apprise it if pursuingOr the right way or the wrong way,To its triumph or undoing.There are flashes struck from midnights,There are fire-flames noondays kindle,Whereby piled-up honours perish,Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle,While just this or that poor impulse,Which for once had play unstifled,Seems the sole work of a life-timeThat away the rest have trifled.Doubt you if, in some such moment,As she fixed me, she felt clearly,Ages past the soul existed,Here an age 'tis resting merely,And hence fleets again for ages,While the true end, sole and single,It stops here for is, this love-way,With some other soul to mingle?Else it loses what it lived for,And eternally must lose it;Better ends may be in prospect,Deeper blisses (if you choose it),But this life's end and this love-blissHave been lost here. Doubt you whetherThis she felt as, looking at me,Mine and her souls rushed together?Oh, observe! Of course, next moment,The world's honours, in derision,Trampled out the light for ever:Never fear but there's provisionOf the devil's to quench knowledgeLest we walk the earth in rapture!---Making those who catch God's secretJust so much more prize their capture!Such am I: the secret's mine now!She has lost me, I have gained her;Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect,I shall pass my life's remainder.Life will just hold out the provingBoth our powers, alone and blended:And then, come next life quickly!This world's use will have been ended.
Let's contend no more, Love,Strive nor weep:All be as before, Love,---Only sleep!
What so wild as words are?I and thouIn debate, as birds are,Hawk on bough!
See the creature stalkingWhile we speak!Hush and hide the talking,Cheek on cheek!
What so false as truth is,False to thee?Where the serpent's tooth isShun the tree—
Where the apple reddensNever pry---Lest we lose our Edens,Eve and I.
Be a god and hold meWith a charm!Be a man and fold meWith thine arm!
Teach me, only teach, LoveAs I oughtI will speak thy speech, Love,Think thy thought—
Meet, if thou require it,Both demands,Laying flesh and spiritIn thy hands.
That shall be to-morrowNot to-night:I must bury sorrowOut of sight:
--Must a little weep, Love,(Foolish me!)And so fall asleep, Love,Loved by thee.
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,And the blue eyeDear and dewy,And that infantine fresh air of hers!To think men cannot take you, Sweet,And enfold you,Ay, and hold you,And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!You like us for a glance, you know---For a word's sakeOr a sword's sake,All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.And in turn we make you ours, we say---You and youth too,Eyes and mouth too,All the face composed of flowers, we say.All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet---Sing and say for,Watch and pray for,Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,Though we prayed you,Paid you, brayed youin a mortar---for you could not, Sweet!So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:Be its beautyIts sole duty!Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!And while the face lies quiet there,Who shall wonderThat I ponderA conclusion? I will try it there.As---why must one, for the love foregone,Scout mere liking?Thunder-strikingEarth---the heaven, we looked above for, gone!Why, with beauty, needs there money be,Love with liking?Crush the fly-kingIn his gauze, because no honey-bee?May not liking be so simple-sweet,If love grew there'Twould undo thereAll that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?Is the creature too imperfect,Would you mend itAnd so end it?Since not all addition perfects aye!Or is it of its kind, perhaps,Just perfection---Whence, rejectionOf a grace not to its mind, perhaps?Shall we burn up, tread that face at onceInto tinder,And so hinderSparks from kindling all the place at once?Or else kiss away one's soul on her?Your love-fancies!---A sick man seesTruer, when his hot eyes roll on her!Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose---Plucks a mould-flowerFor his gold flower,Uses fine things that efface the rose:Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,Precious metalsApe the petals,---Last, some old king locks it up, morose!Then how grace a rose? I know a way!Leave it, rather. Must you gather?Smell, kiss, wear it---at last, throw away!
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,And all thy heart lies open unto me.Now slides the silent meteor on, and leavesA shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,And slips into the bosom of the lake:So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slipInto my bosom and be lost in me.
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves, The full round moon and the star-laden sky, And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves, Had hid away earth's old and weary cry. And then you came with those red mournful lips, And with you came the whole of the world's tears, And all the sorrows of her labouring ships, And all the burden of her myriad years. And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
All things uncomely and broken,all things worn-out and old,The cry of a child by the roadway,the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the ploughman,splashing the wintry mould,Are wronging your image that blossomsa rose in the deeps of my heart. The wrong of unshapely thingsis a wrong too great to be told,I hunger to build them anewand sit on a green knoll apart,With the earth and the sky and the water,remade, like a casket of goldFor my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
When love with unconfined wings. . . Hovers within my gates,And my divine Althea brings. . . To whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hair. . . And fettered to her eye,The birds that wanton in the air. . . Know no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round. . . With no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses bound,. . . Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirst grief in wine we steep,. . . When healths and draughts go free,Fishes that tipple in the deep. . . Know no such liberty . . . Stone walls do not a prison make,. . . Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet take. . . That for an hermitage;If I have freedom in my love,. . . And in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkindFor, from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast, and quiet mind,To war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith- embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this unconstancy is suchAs you too shall adore;For, I could not love thee, Dear, so much,Loved I not honour more.
E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks, That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks, Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, Where in a greater current they conjoin: So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine. E'en so we met; and after long pursuit, E'en so we joined; we both became entire; No need for either to renew a suit, For I was flax, and He was flames of fire: Our firm-united souls did more than twine; So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine. If all those glittering Monarchs, that command The servile quarters of this earthly ball, Should tender in exchange their shares of land, I would not change my fortunes for them all: Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: The world 's but theirs; but my Beloved's mine.
 
There is a lady sweet and kind,Was never face so pleas'd my mind;I did but see her passing by,And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,Beguiles my heart, I know not why,And yet I love her till I die.
Her free behaviour, winning looks,Will make a lawyer burn his books;I touch'd her not, alas! not I,And yet I love her till I die.
Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,Judge you that think such sports were harms,Were't any harm? no, no, fie, fie,For I will love her till I die.
Should I remain confined thereSo long as Phoebus in his sphere,I to request, she to deny,Yet would I love her till I die.
Cupid is winged and doth range,Her country so my love doth change:But change she earth, or change she sky,Yet will I love her till I die.
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, youAs yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bendYour force, to break, blow, burn and make me new.I, like an usurpt town, to another due,Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end,Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue,Yet dearely I love you, and would be lov'd faine,But am betroth'd unto your enemy,Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,Take me to you, imprison me, for IExcept you enthrall me, never shall be free,Nor ever chast, except you ravish me.
Where, like a pillow on a bed, A pregnant bank swell'd up, to rest The violet's reclining head, Sat we two, one another's best.
Our hands were firmly cemented By a fast balm, which thence did spring; Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string.
So to engraft our hands, as yet Was all the means to make us one; And pictures in our eyes to get Was all our propagation.
As, 'twixt two equal armies, Fate Suspends uncertain victory, Our souls—which to advance their state, Were gone out—hung 'twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there, We like sepulchral statues lay; All day, the same our postures were, And we said nothing, all the day.
If any, so by love refined, That he soul's language understood, And by good love were grown all mind, Within convenient distance stood,
He—though he knew not which soul spake, Because both meant, both spake the same— Might thence a new concoction take, And part far purer than he came.
This ecstasy doth unperplex (We said) and tell us what we love; We see by this, it was not sex; We see, we saw not, what did move:
But as all several souls contain Mixture of things they know not what, Love these mix'd souls doth mix again, And makes both one, each this, and that.
A single violet transplant, The strength, the colour, and the size— All which before was poor and scant— Redoubles still, and multiplies.
When love with one another so Interanimates two souls, That abler soul, which thence doth flow, Defects of loneliness controls.
We then, who are this new soul, know, Of what we are composed, and made, For th' atomies of which we grow Are souls, whom no change can invade.
But, O alas ! so long, so far, Our bodies why do we forbear? They are ours, though not we; we are Th' intelligences, they the spheres.
We owe them thanks, because they thus Did us, to us, at first convey, Yielded their senses' force to us, Nor are dross to us, but allay.
On man heaven's influence works not so, But that it first imprints the air; For soul into the soul may flow, Though it to body first repair.
As our blood labours to beget Spirits, as like souls as it can; Because such fingers need to knit That subtle knot, which makes us man;
So must pure lovers' souls descend To affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great prince in prison lies.
To our bodies turn we then, that so Weak men on love reveal'd may look; Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.
And if some lover, such as we, Have heard this dialogue of one, Let him still mark us, he shall see Small change when we're to bodies gone.
Busy old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus,Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school-boys and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices;Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams so reverend, and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long. If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and to-morrow late tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay." She's all states, and all princes I;Nothing else is; Princes do but play us ; compared to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.
There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
In that book which isMy memory . . .On the first pageThat is the chapter whenI first met youAppear the words . . .Here begins a new life
When as the rye reach to the chin,And chopcherry, chopcherry ripe within,Strawberries swimming in the cream,And school-boys playing in the stream;Then O, then O, then O my true love said,Till that time come again,She could not live a maid.
A book of verse, underneath the bough,A jug of wine, a loaf of bread - and thouBeside me singing in the wilderness -Ah, wilderness were paradise now!
Ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clearsToday of past regrets and future fears;Tomorrow? Why, tomorrow I may be,Myself, with yesterday's sev'n thousand years.
The pearly treasures of the sea,The lights that spatter heaven above,More precious than these wonders areMy heart-of-hearts filled with your love.The ocean's power, the heavenly sightsCannot outweigh a love filled heart.And sparkling stars or glowing pearlsPale as love flashes, beams and darts.So, little, youthful maiden comeInto my ample, feverish heart For heaven and earth and sea and skyDo melt as love has melt my heart.
Ah Dearest, canst thou tell me whyThe Rose should be so pale?And why the azure VioletShould wither in the vale? And why the Lark should, in the cloud,So sorrowfully sing?And why from loveliest balsam-budsA scent of death should spring?And why the Sun upon the meadSo chillingly should frown?And why the Earth should, like a grave,Be mouldering and brown?And why is it that I, myself,So languishing should be?And why is it, my Heart-of-Hearts,That thou forsakest me?
When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, ‘Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free.’ But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, ‘The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; ’Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue.’ And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.
So, we'll go no more a rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we'll go no more a rovingBy the light of the moon.
Out through the fields and the woodsAnd over the walls I have wended;I have climbed the hills of viewAnd looked at the world, and descended;I have come by the highway home,And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,Save those that the oak is keepingTo ravel them one by oneAnd let them go scraping and creepingOut over the crusted snow,When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,No longer blown hither and thither;The last long aster is gone;The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;The heart is still aching to seek,But the feet question 'Whither?'
Ah, when to the heart of manWas it ever less than a treasonTo go with the drift of things,To yield with a grace to reason,And bow and accept the endOf a love or a season?
I Loved a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba Queen: But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! Her hair like gold did glister, Each eye was like a star, She did surpass her sister, Which pass'd all others far; She would me 'honey' call, She'd--O she'd kiss me too! But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! In summer time to Medley My love and I would go; The boatmen there stood read'ly My love and me to row. For cream there would we call, For cakes and for prunes too; But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! Her cheeks were like the cherry, Her skin was white as snow; When she was blithe and merry She angel-like did show; Her waist exceeding small, The fives did fit her shoe: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! In summer time or winter She had her heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her From sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew: But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo! To maidens' vows and swearing Henceforth no credit give; You may give them the hearing, But never them believe; They are as false as fair, Unconstant, frail, untrue: For mine, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo!
With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art,With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposèd paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There 's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazèd meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.
Proud word you never spoke, but you will speakFour not exempt from pride some future day.Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, Over my open volume you will say, ‘This man loved me‘—then rise and trip away.
Ah, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd away!Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,List while I woo thee with soft melody;Gone are the cares of life's busy throng.Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie;Over the streamlet vapors are borne,Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart, E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
If grief for grief can touch thee, If answering woe for woe, If any truth can melt thee Come to me now!I cannot be more lonely, More drear I cannot be! My worn heart beats so wildly 'Twill break for thee--And when the world despises-- When Heaven repels my prayer-- Will not mine angel comfort? Mine idol hear?Yes, by the tears I'm poured, By all my hours of pain O I shall surely win thee, Beloved, again!
The twentieth year is well-nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow-- 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, No rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou play'd the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine, My Mary! And then I feel that still I hold A richer store ten thousandfold Than misers fancy in their gold, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, That now at every step thou mov'st Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st, My Mary! And still to love, though press'd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!
When Spring in sunny woodland lay, And gilded buds were sparely setOn oak tree and the thorny may, I gave my love a violet."O Love," she said, and kissed my mouth With one light, tender maiden kiss,"There are no rich blooms in the south So fair to me as this!"When Summer reared her haughty crest, We paused beneath the ruddy stars;I placed a rose upon her breast, Plucked from the modest casement bars."O Love," she said, and kissed my mouth-- Heart, heart, rememb'rest thou the bliss?--"In east or west, in north or south, I know no rose but this!"When Autumn raised the purple fruit In clusters to his bearded lips,I laid a heartsease on the lute That sang beneath her finger-tips."O Love," she said--and fair her eyes Smiled thro' the dusk upon the lea--"No heartsease glows beneath the skies But this thou givest me!"When Winter wept at shaking doors, And holly trimmed his ermine vest,And wild winds maddened on the moors, I laid a flower upon her breast."Dear Heart," I whispered to the clay, Which stilly smiled yet answered not,"Bear thou to Heaven itself away True love's Forget-me-not!"
You left me, sweet, two legacies,--A legacy of loveA Heavenly Father would content,Had He the offer of;
You left me boundaries of painCapacious as the sea,Between eternity and time,Your consciousness and me.
I lost a World - the other day!Has Anybody found?You'll know it by the Row of StarsAround its forehead bound.
A Rich man—might not notice it—Yet—to my frugal Eye,Of more Esteem than Ducats—Oh find it—Sir—for me!
For each ecstatic instantWe must an anguish payIn keen and quivering ratioTo the ecstasy.
For each beloved hourSharp pittances of years,Bitter contested farthingsAnd coffers heaped with tears.
If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's land.
If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length Of time's uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting.
Had we but world enough, and time,This coyness, lady, were no crime.We would sit down and think which wayTo walk, and pass our long love's day;Thou by the Indian Ganges' sideShouldst rubies find; I by the tideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood;And you should, if you please, refuseTill the conversion of the Jews.My vegetable love should growVaster than empires, and more slow.An hundred years should go to praiseThine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;Two hundred to adore each breast,But thirty thousand to the rest;An age at least to every part,And the last age should show your heart.For, lady, you deserve this state,Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hearTime's winged chariot hurrying near;And yonder all before us lieDeserts of vast eternity.Thy beauty shall no more be found,Nor, in thy marble vault, shall soundMy echoing song; then worms shall tryThat long preserv'd virginity,And your quaint honour turn to dust,And into ashes all my lust.The grave's a fine and private place,But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hueSits on thy skin like morning dew,And while thy willing soul transpiresAt every pore with instant fires,Now let us sport us while we may;And now, like am'rous birds of prey,Rather at once our time devour,Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.Let us roll all our strength, and allOur sweetness, up into one ball;And tear our pleasures with rough strifeThorough the iron gates of life.Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.
Dearest, let these rosesIn their purity,Be a present symbolOf my love for thee. Underneath the blossomThorns are sure to grow;Take heed lest you touch them,They would pain you so! Ah! my faults like thorns are,But cannot they beHidden 'neath the flowerOf my love for thee?
A Maiden wept and, as a comforter,Came one who cried, "I love thee,"and he seizedHer in his arms and kissed her with hot breath,That dried the tears upon her flaming cheeks.While evermore his boldly blazing eyeBurned into hers; but she uncomfortedShrank from his arms and only wept the more.
Then one came and gazed mutely in her faceWith wide and wistful eyes; but still aloofHe held himself; as with a reverent fear,As one who knows some sacred presence nigh.And as she wept he mingled tear with tear,That cheered her soul like dew a dusty flower,Until she smiled, approached, and touched hishand!
A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,And never a laugh but the moans come double;And that is life!
A crust and a corner that love makes precious,With a smile to warm and the tears to refresh us;And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter;And that is life!
If life were but a dream, my Love,And death the waking time;If day had not a beam, my Love,And night had not a rhyme, --A barren, barren world were thisWithout one saving gleam;I'd only ask that with a kissYou'd wake me from the dream.
If dreaming were the sum of days,And loving were the bane;If battling for a wreath of baysCould soothe a heart in pain, --I'd scorn the meed of battle's might,All other aims aboveI'd choose the human's higher right,To suffer and to love!
Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart, "Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art, To be led astray by trick of a tress, By a smiling face or a ribbon smart;" And my heart was in sore distress.
Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair, The light gleamed soft on her raven hair; And her lips were blooming a rosy red. Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air: "Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"
'Twas a new feeling - something moreThan we had dared to own before,Which then we hid not;We saw it in each other's eye,And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,To speak, but did not.She felt my lips' impassioned touch -'Twas the first time I dared so much,And yet she chid not;But whispered o'er my burning brow,'Oh, do you doubt I love you now?'Sweet soul! I did not.Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,I pressed it closer, closer still,Though gently bid not;Till - oh! the world hath seldom heardOf lovers, who so nearly erred,And yet, who did not.
I've oft been told by learned friars,That wishing and the crime are one,And Heaven punishes desiresAs much as if the deed were done.If wishing damns us, you and IAre damned to all our heart's content;Come, then, at least we may enjoySome pleasure for our punishment!
Consider this small dust, here in the glass, By atoms moved: Could you believe that this the body was Of one that loved; And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly, Was turned to cinders by her eye: Yes ; and in death, as life unblest, To have't exprest, Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
Still to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:Lady, it is to be presum'd,Though art's hid causes are not found,All is not sweet, all is not sound.Give me a look, give me a face,That make simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:Such sweet neglect more taketh meThan all th'adulteries of art.They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kisse but in the cup,And Ile not look for wine.The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,Doth aske a drink divine:But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,I would not change for thine.I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,Not so much honoring thee,As giving it a hope, that thereIt could not withered be.But thou thereon did'st onely breathe,And sent'st it back to mee:Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,Not of it selfe, but thee.
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep:A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,And his love-kindling fire did quickly steepIn a cold valley-fountain of that ground;Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love,A dateless lively heat, still to endure,And grew a seeting bath, which yet men proveAgainst strange maladies a sovereign cure.But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,And thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest,But found no cure, the bath for my help liesWhere Cupid got new fire; my mistress’ eyes.
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,For they in thee a thousand errors note;But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted;Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invitedTo any sensual feast with thee alone:But my five wits nor my five senses canDissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man,Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:Only my plague thus far I count my gain,That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou see’st the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west;Which by and by black night doth take away,Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,How to divide the conquest of thy sight;Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, A closet never pierc’d with crystal eyes But the defendant doth that plea deny,And says in him thy fair appearance lies.To side this title is impannelledA quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;And by their verdict is determinedThe clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part:As thus; mine eye’s due is thy outward part,And my heart’s right, thy inward love of heart.
I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea,Borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes;I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me,I would beat with your heart as it beats, I would follow your soulas it leads.
I thought of you and how you love this beauty,And walking up the long beach all aloneI heard the waves breaking in measured thunderAs you and I once heard their monotone.Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond meThe cold and sparkling silver of the sea,We two will pass through death and ages lengthenBefore you hear that sound again with me.
When April bends above meAnd finds me fast asleepDust need not keep the secretA live heart died to keep.When April tells the thrushes,The meadow-larks will know,And pipe the three words lightlyTo all the winds that blow.Above his roof the swallows,In notes like far-blown rain,Will tell the little sparrowBeside his window-pane.O sparrow, little sparrow,When I am fast asleep,Then tell my love the secretThat I have died to keep.
I am not yours, not lost in you,Not lost, although I long to beLost as a candle lit at noon,Lost as a snowflake in the sea.You love me, and I find you stillA spirit beautiful and bright,Yet I am I, who long to beLost as a light is lost in light.Oh plunge me deep in love, put outMy senses, leave me deaf and blind,Swept by the tempest of your love,A taper in a rushing wind.
Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep,And shall my soul that lies within your handRemember nothing, as the blowing sandForgets the palm where long blue shadows creepWhen winds along the darkened desert sweep?Or would it still remember, tho' it spannedA thousand heavens, while the planets fannedThe vacant ether with their voices deep?Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot,Nor yet alone, beloved, shall we seeThe desolation of extinguished suns,Nor fear the void wherethro' our planet runs,For still together shall we go and notFare forth alone to front eternity.
A charm invests a faceImperfectly beheld.The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled.But peers beyond her mesh,And wishes, and denies, 'Lest interview annul a wantThat image satisfies.
I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright.I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—And the champak’s odoursLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale’s complaint,It dies upon her heart,As I must on thine,O beloved as thou art!O lift me from the grass!I die! I faint! I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast:O press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last!
How delicious is the winningOf a kiss at love's beginning,When two mutual hearts are sighingFor the knot there's no untying!Yet remember, 'Midst our wooing,Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;Other smiles may make you fickle,Tears for other charms may trickle.Love he comes, and Love he tarries,Just as fate or fancy carries;Longest stays, when sorest chidden;Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.Bind the sea to slumber stilly,Bind its odour to the lily,Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,Then bind Love to last for ever.Love's a fire that needs renewalOf fresh beauty for its fuel:Love's wing moults when caged and captured,Only free, he soars enraptured.Can you keep the bee from rangingOr the ringdove's neck from changing?No! nor fetter'd Love from dyingIn the knot there's no untying.
Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed;And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,Love itself shall slumber on.
Thou wast all that to me, love,For which my soul did pine-A green isle in the sea, love,A fountain and a shrine,All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!Ah, starry Hope! that didst ariseBut to be overcast!A voice from out the Future cries,"On! on!"- but o'er the Past(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering liesMute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! meThe light of Life is o'er!"No more- no more- no more-"(Such language holds the solemn seaTo the sands upon the shore)Shall bloom the thunder-blasted treeOr the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,And all my nightly dreamsAre where thy grey eye glances,And where thy footstep gleams-In what ethereal dances,By what eternal streams.
O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I: And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt with the sun; I will luve thee still my dear, When the sands of life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
1The gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 2Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!
The fountains mingle with the riverAnd the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for everWith a sweet emotion;Nothing in the world is single,All things by a law divineIn one another's being mingle—Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss high heaven,And the waves clasp one another;No sister-flower would be forgivenIf it disdain'd its brother;And the sunlight clasps the earth,And the moonbeams kiss the sea—What are all these kissings worth,If thou kiss not me?
Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory.—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.— Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heap'd for the beloved's bed—And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient sleepless eremite,The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors;No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say 'I love her for her smile---her look---her way Of speaking gently,---for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'--- For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may Be changed, or change for thee,---and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--- A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea:But we loved with a love that was more than love - I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee;So that her high-born kinsmen cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me - Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud one night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we - Of many far wiser than we - And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,In the sepulchre there by the sea - In her tomb by the sounding sea.
It lies not in our power to love or hate,For will in us is overruled by fate.When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,We wish that one should love, the other win;And one especially do we affectOf two gold ingots, like in each respect:The reason no man knows, let it suffice,What we behold is censured by our eyes.Where both deliberate, the love is slight:Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?
Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures prove,That valleys, groves, hills and fields,Woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers and a kirtleEmbroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair-lined slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs;And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherds' swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning;If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my love.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.I love thee to the level of everyday'sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.I love thee with a passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.