I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;That only men incredulous of despair,Half taught in anguish, through the midnight airBeat upward to God's throne in loud excessOf shrieking and reproach. Full desertnessIn soul as countries lieth silent-bareUnder the blanching, vertical eye-glareOf the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, expressGrief for thy Dead in silence like to death—Most like a monumental statue setIn everlasting watch and moveless woeTill itself crumble to the dust beneath.Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:If it could weep, it could arise and go.—Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Totus est Inermis Idem...
No show of bolts and barsCan keep the foeman out,Or 'scape his secret mineWho enter'd with the doubtThat drew the line.No warder at the gateCan let the friendly in;But, like the sun, o'er allHe will the castle win,And shine along the wall.
Implacable is Love—Foes may be bought or teasedFrom their hostile intent,But he goes unappeasedWho is on kindness bent.—Henry David Thoreau
Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;Fail, Sun and Breath!—yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.—John Ruskin
What care I tho' beauty fadingDie ere Time can turn his glass?What tho' locks the Graces braidingPerish like the summer grass?Tho' thy charms should all decay,Think not my affections may!
For thy charms—tho' bright as morning—Captured not my idle heart;Love so grounded ends in scorning,Lacks the barb to hold the dart.My devotion more secureWoos thy spirit high and pure.—William Caldwell Roscoe
She can be as wise as weAnd wiser when she wishes;She can knit with cunning wit,And dress the homely dishes,She can flourish staff or pen,And deal a wound that lingers;She can talk the talk of men,And touch with thrilling fingers.—George Meredith
O Thou that from the green vales of the WestCom'st in thy tender robes with bashful feet,And to the gathering cloudsLiftest thy soft blue eye:
I woo thee. Spring!—Tho' thy dishevell'd hairIn misty ringlets sweep thy snowy breast,And thy young lips deploreStern Boreas' ruthless rage:
While morn is stee'd in dews, and the dank show'rDrops from the green boughs of the budding trees;And the thrush tunes his songWarbling with unripe throat:
Thro' the deep wood where spreads the sylvan oakI follow thee, and see thy hands unfoldThe love-sick primrose paleAnd moist-eyed violet:
While in the central grove, at thy soft voice,The Dryads start forth from their wintry cells,And from their oozy wavesThe Naiads lift their heads
In sedgy bonnets trimm'd with rushy leavesAnd water-blossoms from the forest stream,To pay their vows to thee,Their thrice adored queen!
The stripling shepherd wand'ring thro' the woodStartles the linnet from her downy nest,Or wreathes his crook with flowers,The sweetest of the fields.
From the grey branches of the ivied ashThe stock-dove pours her vernal elegy,While further down the valeEchoes the cuckoo's note.
Beneath this trellis'd arbour's antique roof,When the wild laurel rustles in the breeze,By Cam's slow murmuring streamI waste the live-long day;
And bid thee. Spring, rule fair the infant year,Till my loved Maid in russet stole approach:O yield her to my arms,Her red lips breathing love!
So shall the sweet May drink thy falling tears,And on thy blue eyes pour a beam of joy;And float thy azure locksUpon the western wind.
So shall the nightingale rejoice thy woods,And Hesper early light his dewy star;And oft at eventideBeneath the rising moon.
May lovers' whispers soothe thy list'ning ear,And as they steal the soft impassion'd kiss,Confess thy genial reign,O love-inspiring Spring!—William Stanley Roscoe
I pr'y thee send me back my heart,Since I cannot have thine;For if from yours you will not part,Why then shouldst thou have mine?
Yet now I think on't, let it lie;To find it were in vain,For thou'st a thief in either eyeWould steal it back again.
Why should two hearts in one breast lie,And yet not lodge together?O love! where is thy sympathy,If thus our breasts you sever?
But love is such a mysteryI cannot find it out;For when I think I'm best resolved,I then am most in doubt.
Then farewell love, and farewell woe,I will no longer pine;For I'll believe I have her heartAs much as she hath mine.—Sir John Suckling
Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage,If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,—Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.—Richard Lovelace
Cupid and my Campaspe playedAt cards for kisses,—Cupid paid;He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,His mother's doves, and teams of sparrows:Loses them, too; then down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on's cheek (but none knows how);With these the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple of his chin:All these did my Campaspe win.At last he set her both his eyes;She won, and Cupid blind did rise;O Love, has she done this to thee?What shall, alas! become of me?—John Lyly
When love, with unconfined wings,Hovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at the grates;When I lie tangled in her hair,And fetter'd to her eye—The birds that wanton in the air,Know no such liberty.—Richard Lovelace
Like to the falling of a star,Or as the flights of eagles are,Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue,Or silver drops of morning dew,Or like the wind that chafes the flood,Or bubbles which on water stood;Even such is man, whose borrowed lightIs straight called in and paid tonightThe wind blows out, the bubble dies,The spring entombed in autumn lies,The dew's dried up, the star is shot,The flight is past, and man forgot.—Henry King
I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green,There's not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me o' my Jean.—Robert Burns
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,That 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 twentyYouth's a stuff will not endure.—Shakespeare
Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair,Then thrice three times tie up this true love's knot,And murmur soft, "She will or she will not."
Go, burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,These screech owls' feathers and this prickling briar,This cypress gathered at a dead man's grave,That all my fears and cares an end may have.
Then come, you Fairies! dance with me a round!Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound!In vain are all the charms I can devise:She hath an art to break them with her eyes.—Thomas Campion
Come, O come, my life's delight!Let me not in languor pine!Love loves no delay; thy sightThe more enjoyed, the more divine!O come, and take from meThe pain of being deprived of thee!
Thou all sweetness dost enclose,Like a little world of bliss;Beauty guards thy looks, the roseIn them pure and eternal is:Come, then, and make thy flightAs swift to me as heavenly light!—Thomas Campion
I leant upon a coppice gateWhen Frost was spectre-gray,And Winter's dregs made desolateThe weakening eye of day.The tangled vine-stems scored the skyLike strings of broken lyres,And all mankind that haunted nighHad sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seem'd to beThe Century's corpse outleant,His crypt the cloudy canopy,The wind his death-lament.The ancient pulse of germ and birthWas shrunken hard and dry,And every spirit upon earthSeem'd fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose amongThe bleak twigs overheadIn a full-hearted evensongOf joy illimited;An aged thrush, frail, quant, and small,In blast-beruffled plume.Had chosen thus to fling his soulUpon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carollingsOf such ecstatic soundWas written on terrestrial thingsAfar or nigh around,That I could think there trembled throughHis happy good-night airSome blessed Hope, whereof he knewAnd I was unaware.—Thomas Hardy
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf your chaste breast and quiet mindTo 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 inconstancy is suchAs you too shall adore;I could not love thee, dear, so muchLoved I not honour more!—Richard Lovelace
The young moon is white,But the willows are blue:Your small lips are red,But the great clouds are gray:The waves are so manyThat whisper to you;But my love is onlyOne flight of spray.
The bright drops are many,The dark wave is one:The dark wave subsides,And the bright sea remains!And wherever, O singingMaid, you may run,You are one with the worldFor all your pains.
Tho' the great skies are dark,And your small feet are white,Tho' your wide eyes are blueAnd the closed poppies red,Tho' the kisses are many,That colour the night,They are linked like pearlsOn one golden thread.
Were the gray clouds not madeFor the red of your mouth;The ages for flightOf the butterfly years;The sweet of the peachFor the pale lips of drouth,The sunlight of smilesFor the shadow of tears?
Love, Love is the threadThat has pierced them with bliss!All their hues are but notesIn one world-wide tune:Lips, willows and waves,We are one as we kiss,And your face and the flowersFaint away in the moon.—Alfred Noyes
Go, little book, and wish to allFlowers in the garden, meat in the hall,A bin of wine, a spice of wit,A house with lawns enclosing it,A living river by the door,A nightingale in the sycamore.—Robert Louis Stevenson
I saw, I saw the lovely childI watch'd her by the way,I learnt her gestures sweet and wildHer loving eyes and gay.
Her name?—I heard not, nay, nor care;Enough it was for meTo find her innocently fairAnd delicately free.
O cease and go ere dreams be done,Nor trace the angel's birth,Nor find the Paradisal oneA blossom of the earth!
Thus is it with our subtlest joys,—How quick the soul's alarm!How lightly deed or word destroysThat evanescent charm!
It comes unbidden, comes unbought,Unfetter'd flees away;His swiftest and his sweetest thoughtCan never poet say.—Frederic William Henry Myers
I will make you brooches and toys for your delightOf bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.I will make a palace fit for you and me,Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,And you shall wash your linen and keep your body whiteIn rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.
And this shall be for music when no one else is near,The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!That only I remember, that only you admire,Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.—Robert Louis Stevenson
Her hair the net of golden wire,Wherein my heart, led by my wandering eyes,So fast entangled is that in no wiseIt can, nor will, again retire;But rather will in that sweet bondage dieThan break one hair to gain her liberty.—Thomas Bateson
Maidens kilt your skirts and goDown the stormy garden-ways.Pluck the last sweet pinks that blow,Gather roses, gather bays,Since our Celia comes to-day,That has been so long away.
Crowd her chamber with your sweets—Not a flower but grows for her!Make her bed with linen sheetsThat have lain in lavender:Light a fire before she come,Lest she find us chill at home.
Ah, what joy when Celia standsBy the leaping blaze at last,Stooping low to warm her handsAll benumbed with the blast,While we hide her cloak away,To assure us she shall stay!
Cyder bring and cowslip wine,Fruits and flavours from the East,Pears and pippins too, and fineSaffron loaves to make a feast;China dishes, silver cups,For the board where Celia sups!
Then, when all the feasting's done,She shall draw us round the blaze,Laugh, and tell us every oneOf her far triumphant days—Celia, out of doors a star,By the hearth a holier Lar!—Agnes Mary Frances Dudaux
Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward,Couch'd with her arms behind her golden head,Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,Lies my young love sleeping in the shade.Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her,Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow,Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me:Then would she hold me and never let me go?
Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow,Swift as the swallow along the river's lightCircleting the surface to meet his mirror'd winglets,Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight.Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops,Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun,She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!—George Meredith
On a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose.Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiendAbove the rolling ball in cloud part screen'd,Where sinners hugg'd their sceptre of repose.Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.And now upon his western wing he lean'd,Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd,Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows.Soaring through wider zones that prick'd his scarsWith memory of the old revolt from Awe,He reach'd a middle height, and at the stars,Which are the brain of heaven, he look'd, and sankAround the ancient track march'd, rank on rank,The army of unalterable law.—George Meredith
The maid I love ne'er thought of meAmid the scenes of gaiety;But when her heart or mine sank low,Ah, then it was no longer so!From the slant palm she rais'd her head,And kiss'd the cheek whence youth had fled.Angels! some future day for this,Give her as sweet and pure a kiss.—Walter Savage Landor
Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be;Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and freeAs in the whole world thou shalt find,That heart I'll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stayTo honour thy decree;Or bid it languish quite away,And it shalt do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep,While I have eyes to see;And having none, yet I will keepA heart to weep for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heartThe very eyes of me;And hast command of every part,To live and die for thee.—Robert Herrick
Forty Viziers saw I goUp to the Seraglio,Burning, each and every man,For the fair Circassian.
Ere the morn had disappear'd,Every Vizier wore a beard;Ere the afternoon was bornEvery Vizier came back shorn.
'Let the man that woos to winWoo with an unhairy chin:'Thus she said, and as she bidEach devoted Vizier did.
From the beards a cord she made,Loop'd it to the balustrade,Glided down and went awayTo her own Circassia.
When the Sultan heard, wax'd heSomewhat wroth, and presentlyIn the noose themselves did lendEvery Vizier did suspend.
Sages all, this rhyme who read,Of your beards take prudent heed,And beware the wily plansOf the fair Circassians.—Richard Garnett
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 staysHad 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.—John Suckling
It is buried and done with,The love that we knew:Those cobwebs we spun withAre beaded with dew.
I loved thee; I leave thee:To love thee was pain:I dare not believe theeTo love thee again.
Like spectres unshrivenAre the years that I lost;To thee they were givenWithout count of cost.
I cannot revive themBy penance or prayer;Hell's tempest must drive themThro' turbulent air.
Farewell, and forget me;For I, too, am freeFrom the shame that beset me,The sorrow of thee.—John Addington Symonds
How blest has my time been, what days have I known,Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessie my own!So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain,That freedom is tasteless and roving a pain.
Through walks, grown with woodbines, as often we stray,Around us our girls and boys frolic and play,How pleasing their sport is, the wanton ones see,And borrow their looks from my Jessie and me.
To try her sweet temper sometimes am I seenIn revels all day with the nymphs of the green;Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles,And meets me at night with compliance and smiles.
What though on her cheek the rose loses its hue,Her ease and good humour bloom all the year through,Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth,And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare,And cheat with false vows the too credulous fair,In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam,To hold it for life, you must find it at home.—Edward Moore
Chicken-skin, delicate, white,Painted by Carlo Vanloo,Loves in a riot of light,Roses and vaporous blue;Hark to the dainty frou-frou!Picture above if you can,Eyes that could melt as the dew—This was the Pompadour's fan!
See how they rise at the sight,Thronging the OEil de Boeuf through,Courtiers as butterflies bright,Beauties that Fragonard drew,Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,Cardinal, Duke,—to a man,Eager to sigh or to sue,—This was the Pompadour's fan!
Ah! but things more than politeHung on this toy, voyez vous!Matters of state and of might,Things that great ministers do;Things that, maybe, overthrewThose in whose brains they began;Here was the sign and the cue,—This was the Pompadour's fan!
Envoy.
Where are the secrets it knew?Weavings of plot and of plan?—But where is the Pompadour, too?This was the Pompadour's Fan!—Austin Dobson
My heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a water'd shoot;My heart is like an apple-treeWhose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all these,Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.—Christina Georgina Rossetti
Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise,Old Time will make thee colder,And though each morning new ariseYet we each day grow older.Thou as heaven art fair and young,Thine eyes like twin stars shining:But ere another day be sprung,All these will be declining;Then winter comes with all his fears,And all thy sweets shall borrow;Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,And I, too late, shall sorrow.—Walter Porter
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishesAnd marching single in an endless file,Bring diadems and faggots in their hands.To each they offer gifts after his will—Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.I, in my pleached garden, watch'd the pomp,Forgot my morning wishes, hastilyTook a few herbs and apples, and the DayTurn'd and departed silent. I, too late,Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.—Ralph Waldo Emerson
I will confessWith cheerfulness,Love is a thing so likes me,That let her layOn me all dayI'll kiss the hand that strikes me.
I will not, INow blubb'ring, cry,It (ah!) too late repents me,That I did fallTo love at all,Since love so much contents me.
No, no, I'll beIn fetters free:While others they sit wringingTheir hands for pain,I'll entertainThe wounds of love with singing.—Robert Herrick
Here end my chains, and thraldom cease,If not in joy, I'll live at least in peace;Since for the pleasures of an hour,We must endure an age of pain;I'll be this abject thing no more,Love, give me back my heart again.
Despair tormented first my breast,Now falsehood, a more cruel guest;O! for the peace of human kind,Make women longer true, or sooner kind;With justice, or with mercy reign,O Love! or give me back my heart again.—George Granville(Lord Lansdowne)
My little pretty one!My softly winning one!Oh! thou'rt a merry one!And playful as can be.With a beck thou com'st anon;In a trice, too, thou are gone,And I must sigh alone,But sighs are lost upon thee.
Art thou my smiling one,Art thou my pouting one,Art thou my teasing one,A goddess, elf, or grace?With a frown thou wound'st my heart,With a smile thou heal'st the smart;Why play the tyrant's partWith such an innocent face?—Old Song
Go, lovely Rose,Tell her that wastes her time and me,That now she knowsWhen 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 had'st 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.—Edmund Waller
The bee to the heather,The lark to the sky,The roe to the greenwood,And whither shall I?
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!So sweet to the beeAre moorland and heatherBy Cannock and Leigh!
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!O'er Teddesley ParkThe sunny sky scattersThe notes of the lark!
O, Alice! Ah, Alice!In Beaudesert gladeThe roes toss their antlersFor joy of the shade!—
But Alice, dear Alice!Glade, moorland, nor skyWithout you can content me—And whither shall I?—Sir Henry Taylor
The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,And climbing, shakes his dewy wings,He takes your window for the east,And to implore your light, he sings;Awake, awake, the morn will never riseTill she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,The ploughman from the sun his season takes;But still the lover wonders what they are,Who look for day before his mistress wakes.Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn,Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.—William D'Avenant
Night, and the down by the sea,And the veil of rain on the down;And she came through the mist and the rain to meFrom the safe warm lights of the town.
The rain shone in her hair,And her face gleam'd in the rain;And only the night and the rain were thereAs she came to me out of the rain.—Arthur Symons
Down by the sally gardens my love and I did meet;She pass'd the sally gardens with little snow-white feet.She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.She bade me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.—William Butler Yeats
She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,Her tears are in the falling rain,She calls me in the wind's soft song,And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger,The moon is but her silver car.Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,And every wistful waiting star.—Richard Le Gallienne
When Delia on the plain appearsAw'd by a thousand tender fears,I would approach, but dare not move:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd earNo other voice but hers can hear,No other wit but hers approve:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend,Though I was once his fondest friend,His instant enemy I prove:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no moreDelight in all that pleas'd before,The clearest spring, or shadiest grove:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When, fond of power, of beauty vain,Her nets she spread for every swain,I strove to hate, but vainly strove:Tell me, my heart, if this be love?—George Lyttleton
Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternestBut the surest teacher is the heart;Studying that and that alone, thou learnestBest and soonest whence and what thou art.
Moor, Chinese, Egyptian, Russian, Roman,Tread one common down-hill path of doom;Everywhere the names are man and woman,Everywhere the old sad sins find room.
Evil angels tempt us in all places.What but sands or snows hath earth to give?Dream not, friend, of deserts and oases;But look inwards, and begin to live!—James Clarence Mangan
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 dayYou 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 whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.—Christina Georgina Rossetti
There be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmed ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleamingAnd the lull'd winds seem dreaming.
And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o'er the deep;Whose breast is gently heavingAs an infant's asleep;So, the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean.—George Gordon(Lord Byron)
What shall I send my love todayWhen all the woods attune to love,And I would show the lark and doveThat I can love as well as they? ...
I'll send a kiss, for that would beThe quickest sent, the lightest borne;And well I know to-morrow mornShe'll send it back again to me.
Go, happy winds! ah, do not stayEnamour'd of my lady's cheek,But hasten home, and I'll bespeakYour services another day!—Matilda Betham Edwards
You say I love not, 'cause I do not playStill with your curls, and kiss the time away.You blame me, too, because I can't deviseSome sport, to please those babies in your eyes;By Love's religion, I must here confess it,The most I love when I the least express it.Small griefs find tongues; full casks are ever foundTo give, if any, yet but little sound.Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know,That chiding streams betray small depths below.So, when Love speechless is, she doth expressA depth in love, and that depth bottomless.Now since my love is tongueless, know me such,Who speak but little, 'cause I love so much.—Robert Herrick
When you are old and gray and full of sleepAnd, 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 overhead,And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.—William Butler Yeats
False though she be to me and love,I'll ne'er pursue revenge:For still the charmer I approve,Though I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met,They could not always last;And though the present I regret,I'm grateful for the past.—William Congreve
I lately vow'd, but 'twas in haste,That I no more would courtThe joys that seem when they are pastAs dull as they are short.
I oft to hate my mistress swear,But soon my weakness find;I make my oaths when she's severe,But break them when she's kind.—John Oldmixon
Name the leaves on all the trees,Name the waves on all the seas,Name the notes of all the groves,Thus thou namest all my loves.
I do love the young, the old,Maiden modest, virgin bold;Tiny beauties and the tall—Earth has room enough for all!
Which is better—who can say?—Mary grave or Lucy gay?She who half her charms conceals,She who flashes while she feels?
Why should I my love confine?Why should fair be mine or thine?If I praise a tulip, whyShould I pass the primrose by?
Paris was a pedant foolMeting beauty by the rule:Pallas? Juno? Venus?—heShould have chosen all the three!—John Stuart Blackie
Venus whipt Cupid t'other day,For having lost his bow and quiver;For he had given them both awayTo Stella, queen of Isis river.
"Mamma! you wrong me while you strike,"Cried weeping Cupid, "for I vow,Stella and you are so alike,I thought that I had lent them you."—William Somerville
Hard is the fate of him who loves,Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,But to the sympathetic groves,But to the lonely listening plain.
Oh! when she blesses next your shade,Oh! when her footsteps next are seenIn flowery tracts along the mead,In fresher mazes o'er the green,
Ye gentle spirits of the vale,To whom the tears of love are dear,From dying lilies waft a gale,And sigh my sorrows in her ear.
Oh, tell her what she cannot blame,Though fear my tongue must ever bind;Oh, tell her that my virtuous flameIs as her spotless soul, refin'd.
Not her own guardian angel eyesWith chaster tenderness his care,Not purer her own wishes rise,Not holier her own sighs in prayer.
But if, at first, her virgin fearShould start at love's suspected name,With that of friendship soothe her ear—True love and friendship are the same.—William Somerville
Better trust all, and be deceived,And weep that trust and that deceiving,Than doubt one heart that, if believed,Had bless'd one's life with true believing.
O, in this mocking world too fastThe doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth!Better be cheated to the lastThan lose the blessed hope of truth.—Frances Anne Kemble
A beautiful and happy girl,With step as light as summer air,Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl,Shadow'd by many a careless curlOf unconfined and flowing hair;A seeming child in everything,Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,As Nature wears the smile of SpringWhen sinking into Summer's arms.
A mind rejoicing in the lightWhich melted through its graceful bower,Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright,And stainless in its holy white,Unfolding like a morning flower:A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute,With every breath of feeling woke,And, even when the tongue was mute,From eye and lip in music spoke.—John Greenleaf Whittier
O fairest of the rural maids!Thy birth was in the forest shades;And all the beauty of the placeIs in thy heart and on thy face.
The twilight of the trees and rocksIs in the light shade of thy locks,Thy step is as the wind that weavesIts playful way among the leaves.
Thine eyes are springs, in whose sereneAnd silent waters heaven is seen;Their lashes are the herds that lookOn their young figures in the brook.
The forest depths by foot unpress'dAre not more sinless than thy breast;The holy peace that fills the airOf those calm solitudes is there.—William Cullen Bryant
The clouds, which rise with thunder, slakeOur thirsty souls with rain;The blow most dreaded falls to breakFrom off our limbs a chain;And wrongs of man to man but makeThe love of God more plain.As through the shadowy lens of evenThe eye looks farthest into heavenOn gleams of star and depths of blueThe glaring sunshine never knew!—John Greenleaf Whittier
The lark above our heads doth knowA heaven we see not here below;She sees it, and for joy she sings;Then falls with ineffectual wings.
Ah, soaring soul! faint not nor tire!Each heaven attain'd reveals a higher,Thy thought is of thy failure; weList raptured, and thank God for thee.—Francis William Bourdillon
Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicean barks of yoreThat gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary way-worn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo, in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand,Ah! Psyche, from the regions whichAre holy land!—Edgar Allan Poe
Woman's faith, and woman's trust—Write the characters in dust;Stamp them on the running stream,Print them on the moon's pale beam,And each evanescent letterShall be clearer, firmer, better,And more permanent, I ween,Than the thing those letters mean.
I have strain'd the spider's thread'Gainst the promise of a maid;I have weigh'd a grain of sand'Gainst her plight of heart and hand;I hold my true love of the token,How her faith proved light and her word was broken:Again her word and truth she plight,And I believed them again ere night.—Sir Walter Scott
Dear voyager, a lucky star be thine,To Mytilene sailing over sea,Or foul or fair the constellations shine,Or east or west the wind-blown billows flee.May halcyon-birds that hover o'er the brineDiffuse abroad their own tranquillity,Till ocean stretches stilly as the wineIn this deep cup which now we drain to thee.
From lip to lip the merry circle throughWe pass the tankard and repeat thy name;And having pledged thee once, we pledge anew,Lest in thy friends' neglect thou suffer shame.God-speed to ship, good health to pious crew,Peace by the way, and port of noble fame!—Edward Cracroft Lefroy
I asked my fair, one happy day,What I should call her in my lay;By what sweet name from Rome or Greece:Lalage, Neaera, Chloris,Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,Arethusa or Lucrece.
"Ah!" returned my gentle fair,"Beloved, what are names but air?Choose whatever suits the line;Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,Call me Lalage or Doris,Only, only call me Thine!"—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Gods, what a sun! I think the world's aglowThis garment irks me. Phoebus, it is hot!'Twere sad if Glycera should find me shotBy flame-tipp'd arrows from the Archer's bow.Perchance he envies me,—the villain! OFor one tree's shadow or a cliff-side grot!Where shall I shelter that he slay me not?In what cool air or element?—I know.
The sea shall save me from the sweltering land:Far out I'll wade, till creeping up and up,The cold green water quenches every limb.Then to the jealous god with lifted handI'll pour libation from a rosy cup,And leap, and dive, and see the tunnies swim.—Edward Cracroft Lefroy
The yellow moon is a dancing phantomDown secret ways of the flowing shade;And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisperWhere the alders wade.
Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper:Only the moon is a dancing bladeThat leads a host of the Crescent warriorsTo a phantom raid.
Out of the lands of Faerie a summons,A long strange cry that thrills thro' the glade:—The grey-green glooms of the elm are stirring,Newly afraid.
Last heard, white music, under the olivesWhere once Theocritus sang and play'd—Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder—O moon-white maid!—William Sharp
O, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!
And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!—Robert Browning
Say, mighty Love, and teach my song,To whom thy sweetest joys belong,And who the happy pairsWhose yielding hearts, and joining hands,Find blessings twisted with their bandsTo soften all their cares.
Two kindest souls alone must meet,'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,And feeds their mutual loves:Bright Venus on her rolling throneIs drawn by gentlest birds alone,And Cupids yoke the doves.—Dr. Isaac Watts
Gentle love, this hour befriend me,To my eyes resign thy dart;Notes of melting music lend me,To dissolve a frozen heart.
Chill as mountain snow her bosom,Though I tender language use,'Tis by cold indifference frozen,To my arms, and to my Muse.
See! my dying eyes are pleading,Where a breaking heart appears;For thy pity intercedingWith the eloquence of tears.
While the lamp of life is fading,And beneath thy coldness dies,Death my ebbing pulse invading,Take my soul into thy eyes.—Aaron Hill