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...
Love is a sickness full of woes, More we enjoy it, more it dies; Love is a... |
You meaner beauties of the night, You curious chanters of the wood, |
My true love hath my heart, and I have his, His heart in me keeps him and me in one, |
Two separate divided silences, |
You will come one day in a waver of love, You will come, with your slim, expressive arms, |
I dwelt alone Ah, less—less bright |
O, hurry, where by water, among the trees, Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed |
Music, when soft voices die, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, |
When I go away from you |
I wander’d lonely as a cloud Continuous as the stars that shine |