AH Love! Couldst thou but greet me every even,And let thine eyes lose those soft rays in mine;Couldst thou but share with me this bread and wine,Or something of what God to me hath given,Then might I feel, that not in vain was drivenThis love-shaft in my soul; for it would shineWith gratitude, and round thine own entwineThe fairest flowers that e’er were grown in Heaven.Had I but thee to share my pain with me,Pain would be joy, and joy that pain dispelled.Were thy dear form beside me, night and day,Then could I grieve no longer, but would beSo happy, happiness would be impelledTo change my spirit in some magic way.
AH Love! Couldst thou but greet me every even,And let thine eyes lose those soft rays in mine;Couldst thou but share with me this bread and wine,Or something of what God to me hath given,Then might I feel, that not in vain was drivenThis love-shaft in my soul; for it would shineWith gratitude, and round thine own entwineThe fairest flowers that e’er were grown in Heaven.Had I but thee to share my pain with me,Pain would be joy, and joy that pain dispelled.Were thy dear form beside me, night and day,Then could I grieve no longer, but would beSo happy, happiness would be impelledTo change my spirit in some magic way.
AH Love! Couldst thou but greet me every even,And let thine eyes lose those soft rays in mine;Couldst thou but share with me this bread and wine,Or something of what God to me hath given,Then might I feel, that not in vain was drivenThis love-shaft in my soul; for it would shineWith gratitude, and round thine own entwineThe fairest flowers that e’er were grown in Heaven.Had I but thee to share my pain with me,Pain would be joy, and joy that pain dispelled.Were thy dear form beside me, night and day,Then could I grieve no longer, but would beSo happy, happiness would be impelledTo change my spirit in some magic way.
LOVE is not passion; nor is passion love.The two are twined together in some wise.Love, spiritual, cometh from the skies,Ennobles life and lifts our thoughts above.Passion we find oft lurking in some grove,Where pleasant sights draw forth our pleasing cries,And where some bird of plumage round us flies,While we, half knowing, through the shadows rove.Yet, with these two, we find ourselves on earth.One seldom doth the other disengage.Strange combination of life’s heaven and hell!That giveth unto man his power of birth,And causeth him to claim his parentageWhenever, or where he may chance to dwell.
LOVE is not passion; nor is passion love.The two are twined together in some wise.Love, spiritual, cometh from the skies,Ennobles life and lifts our thoughts above.Passion we find oft lurking in some grove,Where pleasant sights draw forth our pleasing cries,And where some bird of plumage round us flies,While we, half knowing, through the shadows rove.Yet, with these two, we find ourselves on earth.One seldom doth the other disengage.Strange combination of life’s heaven and hell!That giveth unto man his power of birth,And causeth him to claim his parentageWhenever, or where he may chance to dwell.
LOVE is not passion; nor is passion love.The two are twined together in some wise.Love, spiritual, cometh from the skies,Ennobles life and lifts our thoughts above.Passion we find oft lurking in some grove,Where pleasant sights draw forth our pleasing cries,And where some bird of plumage round us flies,While we, half knowing, through the shadows rove.Yet, with these two, we find ourselves on earth.One seldom doth the other disengage.Strange combination of life’s heaven and hell!That giveth unto man his power of birth,And causeth him to claim his parentageWhenever, or where he may chance to dwell.
WHAT subtle fragrance, like some passion flower,Lurks in the petals of thy love for me,That seemeth every day more sweet to be,Thou beautiful example of the powerThat nature hath, with loveliness to showerHer favored ones? I would that I might see,In those blue eyes that show so much of thee,Some deeper color, given as a dower.Yet ne’er lose hope, my heart. Thou shalt succeed,So thou persist in thy true quest, untilAll barriers opposing thee do fall.Ah, then in vain no longer shalt thou plead!But of love’s welcome draft drink to thy fill,And, in that hour, know life doth give thee all.
WHAT subtle fragrance, like some passion flower,Lurks in the petals of thy love for me,That seemeth every day more sweet to be,Thou beautiful example of the powerThat nature hath, with loveliness to showerHer favored ones? I would that I might see,In those blue eyes that show so much of thee,Some deeper color, given as a dower.Yet ne’er lose hope, my heart. Thou shalt succeed,So thou persist in thy true quest, untilAll barriers opposing thee do fall.Ah, then in vain no longer shalt thou plead!But of love’s welcome draft drink to thy fill,And, in that hour, know life doth give thee all.
WHAT subtle fragrance, like some passion flower,Lurks in the petals of thy love for me,That seemeth every day more sweet to be,Thou beautiful example of the powerThat nature hath, with loveliness to showerHer favored ones? I would that I might see,In those blue eyes that show so much of thee,Some deeper color, given as a dower.Yet ne’er lose hope, my heart. Thou shalt succeed,So thou persist in thy true quest, untilAll barriers opposing thee do fall.Ah, then in vain no longer shalt thou plead!But of love’s welcome draft drink to thy fill,And, in that hour, know life doth give thee all.
UNTO the sea my love I would compare,That shineth first beneath the morning sun,And danceth with its beams, as if for fun.Then as the clouds would turn them to despair,The beams soon disappear upon the air,Like fairy jewels, that away would run.Then, as their beauty doth its surface shun,It heaves as if it doth some sorrow share.Far down the sea of mine own love doth sink;But, soon returning on itself, a waveOf real emotion rolleth o’er my heart;And all that thou hast been to me, I think,Is like some treasure I must strive to save,And guard thee well, so thou canst ne’er depart.
UNTO the sea my love I would compare,That shineth first beneath the morning sun,And danceth with its beams, as if for fun.Then as the clouds would turn them to despair,The beams soon disappear upon the air,Like fairy jewels, that away would run.Then, as their beauty doth its surface shun,It heaves as if it doth some sorrow share.Far down the sea of mine own love doth sink;But, soon returning on itself, a waveOf real emotion rolleth o’er my heart;And all that thou hast been to me, I think,Is like some treasure I must strive to save,And guard thee well, so thou canst ne’er depart.
UNTO the sea my love I would compare,That shineth first beneath the morning sun,And danceth with its beams, as if for fun.Then as the clouds would turn them to despair,The beams soon disappear upon the air,Like fairy jewels, that away would run.Then, as their beauty doth its surface shun,It heaves as if it doth some sorrow share.Far down the sea of mine own love doth sink;But, soon returning on itself, a waveOf real emotion rolleth o’er my heart;And all that thou hast been to me, I think,Is like some treasure I must strive to save,And guard thee well, so thou canst ne’er depart.
THERE is a lovely avenue of trees,That winds its way o’er many a meadow-land,And leads in time to the salt sea and sand,Where I have walked and felt the summer breezeWaft the sweet air that fans with perfect easeThe trembling leaves, the ferns on every hand;A place wherein might sport some fairy band,And in their gaiety my fancy seize.In some such place would I find love awaiting,Ready to guide me by the trickling brooks,And lead me to some soft and rustic lair.With thee, my well-beloved, would I be mating(Like birds in springtime ’neath the shaded nooks),The vision of thy love to my despair!
THERE is a lovely avenue of trees,That winds its way o’er many a meadow-land,And leads in time to the salt sea and sand,Where I have walked and felt the summer breezeWaft the sweet air that fans with perfect easeThe trembling leaves, the ferns on every hand;A place wherein might sport some fairy band,And in their gaiety my fancy seize.In some such place would I find love awaiting,Ready to guide me by the trickling brooks,And lead me to some soft and rustic lair.With thee, my well-beloved, would I be mating(Like birds in springtime ’neath the shaded nooks),The vision of thy love to my despair!
THERE is a lovely avenue of trees,That winds its way o’er many a meadow-land,And leads in time to the salt sea and sand,Where I have walked and felt the summer breezeWaft the sweet air that fans with perfect easeThe trembling leaves, the ferns on every hand;A place wherein might sport some fairy band,And in their gaiety my fancy seize.In some such place would I find love awaiting,Ready to guide me by the trickling brooks,And lead me to some soft and rustic lair.With thee, my well-beloved, would I be mating(Like birds in springtime ’neath the shaded nooks),The vision of thy love to my despair!
UPON the highland spaces greet me, Love,And with the fir and hemlock all around thee,Twine thy fair self about my soul, and beTherein the wood-nymph of my rustic grove.Now dost thou fly towards me like some sweet dove,Lighting from branch to branch, and willingly,A group of blossoms bringing unto meFrom the ethereal atmosphere above.’Tis in the air of nature then that weFind through its simple pleasure love’s delight,Free from the turmoil that doth find its birthIn following the paths that others see.Then would the stars illuminate the night,And turn to Heaven the very things of earth.
UPON the highland spaces greet me, Love,And with the fir and hemlock all around thee,Twine thy fair self about my soul, and beTherein the wood-nymph of my rustic grove.Now dost thou fly towards me like some sweet dove,Lighting from branch to branch, and willingly,A group of blossoms bringing unto meFrom the ethereal atmosphere above.’Tis in the air of nature then that weFind through its simple pleasure love’s delight,Free from the turmoil that doth find its birthIn following the paths that others see.Then would the stars illuminate the night,And turn to Heaven the very things of earth.
UPON the highland spaces greet me, Love,And with the fir and hemlock all around thee,Twine thy fair self about my soul, and beTherein the wood-nymph of my rustic grove.Now dost thou fly towards me like some sweet dove,Lighting from branch to branch, and willingly,A group of blossoms bringing unto meFrom the ethereal atmosphere above.’Tis in the air of nature then that weFind through its simple pleasure love’s delight,Free from the turmoil that doth find its birthIn following the paths that others see.Then would the stars illuminate the night,And turn to Heaven the very things of earth.
WHEN the red sun sinks toward the western line,That separates our vision of the sky,And each soft ray far from the earth would fly,To touch the clouds above the salt sea-brineWith magic tones and colors half divine;Then doth my soul seek thine alone, and tryThese tears of disappointed love to dry,Imagining that life on me doth shine.Then in the clouds, o’er Love’s blue sky, reflectingThe golden radiance of thyself, I seeSome likeness to the blood-stains on my heart,That thou hast pierced and wounded, while rejectingThe sunbeams of my spirit, given to thee,That hold thy glory, even as we part.
WHEN the red sun sinks toward the western line,That separates our vision of the sky,And each soft ray far from the earth would fly,To touch the clouds above the salt sea-brineWith magic tones and colors half divine;Then doth my soul seek thine alone, and tryThese tears of disappointed love to dry,Imagining that life on me doth shine.Then in the clouds, o’er Love’s blue sky, reflectingThe golden radiance of thyself, I seeSome likeness to the blood-stains on my heart,That thou hast pierced and wounded, while rejectingThe sunbeams of my spirit, given to thee,That hold thy glory, even as we part.
WHEN the red sun sinks toward the western line,That separates our vision of the sky,And each soft ray far from the earth would fly,To touch the clouds above the salt sea-brineWith magic tones and colors half divine;Then doth my soul seek thine alone, and tryThese tears of disappointed love to dry,Imagining that life on me doth shine.Then in the clouds, o’er Love’s blue sky, reflectingThe golden radiance of thyself, I seeSome likeness to the blood-stains on my heart,That thou hast pierced and wounded, while rejectingThe sunbeams of my spirit, given to thee,That hold thy glory, even as we part.
WHENEVER thou dost let a passing thoughtInhabit the domain of my desire,I wonder just how thou mayst then inquireWithin thy heart, as yet untouched though sought,How great love’s sacrifice, to have been broughtSo strangely to thy life, and set on fireThe soul of one who doth thine own admire,Although thou givest in return but nought.Were it but given to thine eye to seeThe splendor of love’s passion in its prime,Burning upon the rock of thine own being,Nature might then increase her power in thee,And thou might’st find a summit here to climb,That would eclipse all objects thou art seeing.
WHENEVER thou dost let a passing thoughtInhabit the domain of my desire,I wonder just how thou mayst then inquireWithin thy heart, as yet untouched though sought,How great love’s sacrifice, to have been broughtSo strangely to thy life, and set on fireThe soul of one who doth thine own admire,Although thou givest in return but nought.Were it but given to thine eye to seeThe splendor of love’s passion in its prime,Burning upon the rock of thine own being,Nature might then increase her power in thee,And thou might’st find a summit here to climb,That would eclipse all objects thou art seeing.
WHENEVER thou dost let a passing thoughtInhabit the domain of my desire,I wonder just how thou mayst then inquireWithin thy heart, as yet untouched though sought,How great love’s sacrifice, to have been broughtSo strangely to thy life, and set on fireThe soul of one who doth thine own admire,Although thou givest in return but nought.Were it but given to thine eye to seeThe splendor of love’s passion in its prime,Burning upon the rock of thine own being,Nature might then increase her power in thee,And thou might’st find a summit here to climb,That would eclipse all objects thou art seeing.
IF in the years to come life bringeth theeSome of love’s sorrow, to carry in thine hand;If thou shouldst thus experience it, andBy its strange weight, be forced to think and seeWhat youth casts from it in its extasy;Then only couldst thou learn to understandHow suffering hath held me in its band,Since I first found how cruel love could be.Ah me! Though by this means thou mightest comeTo know the value of love’s equipage,And in its chariot ride toward my soul,I would not wish that thou shouldst know, as someLike me have known, from youth to hoary age,The price they pay to reach so dear a goal.
IF in the years to come life bringeth theeSome of love’s sorrow, to carry in thine hand;If thou shouldst thus experience it, andBy its strange weight, be forced to think and seeWhat youth casts from it in its extasy;Then only couldst thou learn to understandHow suffering hath held me in its band,Since I first found how cruel love could be.Ah me! Though by this means thou mightest comeTo know the value of love’s equipage,And in its chariot ride toward my soul,I would not wish that thou shouldst know, as someLike me have known, from youth to hoary age,The price they pay to reach so dear a goal.
IF in the years to come life bringeth theeSome of love’s sorrow, to carry in thine hand;If thou shouldst thus experience it, andBy its strange weight, be forced to think and seeWhat youth casts from it in its extasy;Then only couldst thou learn to understandHow suffering hath held me in its band,Since I first found how cruel love could be.Ah me! Though by this means thou mightest comeTo know the value of love’s equipage,And in its chariot ride toward my soul,I would not wish that thou shouldst know, as someLike me have known, from youth to hoary age,The price they pay to reach so dear a goal.
OH! when the cold, fleet-footed hour of dawnAwaketh me once more to consciousness,My first thought is of thee, but with distress;And every thought that followeth (from morn,Till night her robe of darkness ’round hath drawn)Is still of thee, of thee I do confess,Clothed in sweet love’s most tantalizing dress;Yet of love’s satisfaction stripped and shorn!Then doth each hour in withered hope pass by,Each day and week and month seem endless death.And when thou answerest not my call to thee,I watch, till hope dead in my heart doth lie;For it would seem some evil spirit saith,That I forever in love’s hell must be.
OH! when the cold, fleet-footed hour of dawnAwaketh me once more to consciousness,My first thought is of thee, but with distress;And every thought that followeth (from morn,Till night her robe of darkness ’round hath drawn)Is still of thee, of thee I do confess,Clothed in sweet love’s most tantalizing dress;Yet of love’s satisfaction stripped and shorn!Then doth each hour in withered hope pass by,Each day and week and month seem endless death.And when thou answerest not my call to thee,I watch, till hope dead in my heart doth lie;For it would seem some evil spirit saith,That I forever in love’s hell must be.
OH! when the cold, fleet-footed hour of dawnAwaketh me once more to consciousness,My first thought is of thee, but with distress;And every thought that followeth (from morn,Till night her robe of darkness ’round hath drawn)Is still of thee, of thee I do confess,Clothed in sweet love’s most tantalizing dress;Yet of love’s satisfaction stripped and shorn!Then doth each hour in withered hope pass by,Each day and week and month seem endless death.And when thou answerest not my call to thee,I watch, till hope dead in my heart doth lie;For it would seem some evil spirit saith,That I forever in love’s hell must be.
IF, when thou hast found out that life is sorrow,More frequent than youth’s careless jollity,And when thou pay’st its bitter penalty,And on thy cheek Time draweth his deep furrow,Perchance thine own experience may borrowFrom mine some of love’s rare humility.Then be not in that hour at enmityWith all that is most worthy of the morrow.For so hath haughty youth in age to bow,And unto life do homage for its power,And grovel in great shame when it doth findIts fancied value Time doth not allow,Ah! then mayst thou not pluck so false a flower;Nor say, “To me love hath been so unkind!”
IF, when thou hast found out that life is sorrow,More frequent than youth’s careless jollity,And when thou pay’st its bitter penalty,And on thy cheek Time draweth his deep furrow,Perchance thine own experience may borrowFrom mine some of love’s rare humility.Then be not in that hour at enmityWith all that is most worthy of the morrow.For so hath haughty youth in age to bow,And unto life do homage for its power,And grovel in great shame when it doth findIts fancied value Time doth not allow,Ah! then mayst thou not pluck so false a flower;Nor say, “To me love hath been so unkind!”
IF, when thou hast found out that life is sorrow,More frequent than youth’s careless jollity,And when thou pay’st its bitter penalty,And on thy cheek Time draweth his deep furrow,Perchance thine own experience may borrowFrom mine some of love’s rare humility.Then be not in that hour at enmityWith all that is most worthy of the morrow.For so hath haughty youth in age to bow,And unto life do homage for its power,And grovel in great shame when it doth findIts fancied value Time doth not allow,Ah! then mayst thou not pluck so false a flower;Nor say, “To me love hath been so unkind!”
WITH what despair thou hast inspired my museIn these sad lines, my muse alone can tell.For were I to describe to thee the spellThine eye hath cast upon me, thou wouldst chooseThe power of raillery that thou dost use,To shatter thoughts, my spirit would not sellFor those, far greater, which the poets foretell,Oft in their verse Love’s magic doth infuse.But all that I hold now within my realmOf art is thee, that art thy power alone,To make my lines reflect the hours of spring;Or yet again with sadness overwhelm.For when thy heart seems graven, as in stone,My holiest thoughts to earth their hopes would fling.
WITH what despair thou hast inspired my museIn these sad lines, my muse alone can tell.For were I to describe to thee the spellThine eye hath cast upon me, thou wouldst chooseThe power of raillery that thou dost use,To shatter thoughts, my spirit would not sellFor those, far greater, which the poets foretell,Oft in their verse Love’s magic doth infuse.But all that I hold now within my realmOf art is thee, that art thy power alone,To make my lines reflect the hours of spring;Or yet again with sadness overwhelm.For when thy heart seems graven, as in stone,My holiest thoughts to earth their hopes would fling.
WITH what despair thou hast inspired my museIn these sad lines, my muse alone can tell.For were I to describe to thee the spellThine eye hath cast upon me, thou wouldst chooseThe power of raillery that thou dost use,To shatter thoughts, my spirit would not sellFor those, far greater, which the poets foretell,Oft in their verse Love’s magic doth infuse.But all that I hold now within my realmOf art is thee, that art thy power alone,To make my lines reflect the hours of spring;Or yet again with sadness overwhelm.For when thy heart seems graven, as in stone,My holiest thoughts to earth their hopes would fling.
HOW sweet to me are these soft days of spring;But how much sweeter, did thy beauty bear,Like cherry blossoms o’er the flowering air,Its scented fragrance to me; and did bringSome songs of love, like birds upon the wing,To tell me that my love, with thine, might shareThese lovers’ hours, that in the spring appear,And o’er the earth their efflorescence fling.Ah, Love! thy winter’s waiting hath well-nighThis heart of mine, for love of thee, so broken,That it hath scarce the power to beat to-day.’Twere time, indeed, to compensate my sighAt last with Love’s unutterable token,That shall not with the seasons fade away.
HOW sweet to me are these soft days of spring;But how much sweeter, did thy beauty bear,Like cherry blossoms o’er the flowering air,Its scented fragrance to me; and did bringSome songs of love, like birds upon the wing,To tell me that my love, with thine, might shareThese lovers’ hours, that in the spring appear,And o’er the earth their efflorescence fling.Ah, Love! thy winter’s waiting hath well-nighThis heart of mine, for love of thee, so broken,That it hath scarce the power to beat to-day.’Twere time, indeed, to compensate my sighAt last with Love’s unutterable token,That shall not with the seasons fade away.
HOW sweet to me are these soft days of spring;But how much sweeter, did thy beauty bear,Like cherry blossoms o’er the flowering air,Its scented fragrance to me; and did bringSome songs of love, like birds upon the wing,To tell me that my love, with thine, might shareThese lovers’ hours, that in the spring appear,And o’er the earth their efflorescence fling.Ah, Love! thy winter’s waiting hath well-nighThis heart of mine, for love of thee, so broken,That it hath scarce the power to beat to-day.’Twere time, indeed, to compensate my sighAt last with Love’s unutterable token,That shall not with the seasons fade away.
THOU camest unto me last eventide,When the dull pain of absence had well-nighMade life for me one long-continued sigh,And given me but little hope to hideThe hideous thought, that never to my sideWouldst thou again spontaneously fly.Still, some o’erpowering contact bid me try.And lo! success my efforts did betide.Oh! rapture to my soul, more sweet to meThan glories to the conqueror of a nation!Behold my dry heart, moistened at the soundOf thy dear voice—none dearer could there be—And my sad soul, once more within love’s station,As thy fair form doth twine my heart around!
THOU camest unto me last eventide,When the dull pain of absence had well-nighMade life for me one long-continued sigh,And given me but little hope to hideThe hideous thought, that never to my sideWouldst thou again spontaneously fly.Still, some o’erpowering contact bid me try.And lo! success my efforts did betide.Oh! rapture to my soul, more sweet to meThan glories to the conqueror of a nation!Behold my dry heart, moistened at the soundOf thy dear voice—none dearer could there be—And my sad soul, once more within love’s station,As thy fair form doth twine my heart around!
THOU camest unto me last eventide,When the dull pain of absence had well-nighMade life for me one long-continued sigh,And given me but little hope to hideThe hideous thought, that never to my sideWouldst thou again spontaneously fly.Still, some o’erpowering contact bid me try.And lo! success my efforts did betide.Oh! rapture to my soul, more sweet to meThan glories to the conqueror of a nation!Behold my dry heart, moistened at the soundOf thy dear voice—none dearer could there be—And my sad soul, once more within love’s station,As thy fair form doth twine my heart around!
YET now I cannot with impunityReceive the gilded pleasure of thy love.God knoweth with what zeal for it I strove.But when I feel love’s sweet community,It bringeth to me the lost unity—The loneliness, when I no longer haveNear me thy spirit sent me from above,To test through pain my soul’s immunity.Then, though this cup of joy be mixed with sorrow,Once more must I drink of its poisoned draft,Whilst praying unto God to purify,With thy return of love to me, the morrow,That holds the price of that which I have quaffed;And for all time my spirit satisfy.
YET now I cannot with impunityReceive the gilded pleasure of thy love.God knoweth with what zeal for it I strove.But when I feel love’s sweet community,It bringeth to me the lost unity—The loneliness, when I no longer haveNear me thy spirit sent me from above,To test through pain my soul’s immunity.Then, though this cup of joy be mixed with sorrow,Once more must I drink of its poisoned draft,Whilst praying unto God to purify,With thy return of love to me, the morrow,That holds the price of that which I have quaffed;And for all time my spirit satisfy.
YET now I cannot with impunityReceive the gilded pleasure of thy love.God knoweth with what zeal for it I strove.But when I feel love’s sweet community,It bringeth to me the lost unity—The loneliness, when I no longer haveNear me thy spirit sent me from above,To test through pain my soul’s immunity.Then, though this cup of joy be mixed with sorrow,Once more must I drink of its poisoned draft,Whilst praying unto God to purify,With thy return of love to me, the morrow,That holds the price of that which I have quaffed;And for all time my spirit satisfy.
WHILE thou art near to me, my spirit’s brideArt thou. No mortal can possess thee now,Loved inspiration of my life! I trowThou lovest me while we are side by side.No sorrow surely will this eve betide.Love’s heaven only our two hearts shall know,And for one hour leave life gladly so,As o’er the surface of love’s lake we glide.Ah, loved one! An emotion my heart swelleth,Even as I worship at thy sacred shrine,Which is the noblest life hath brought to me;So great, so holy, that no pen e’er telleth,Till God hath given man a sight of thee,And shown him one who seemeth half divine!
WHILE thou art near to me, my spirit’s brideArt thou. No mortal can possess thee now,Loved inspiration of my life! I trowThou lovest me while we are side by side.No sorrow surely will this eve betide.Love’s heaven only our two hearts shall know,And for one hour leave life gladly so,As o’er the surface of love’s lake we glide.Ah, loved one! An emotion my heart swelleth,Even as I worship at thy sacred shrine,Which is the noblest life hath brought to me;So great, so holy, that no pen e’er telleth,Till God hath given man a sight of thee,And shown him one who seemeth half divine!
WHILE thou art near to me, my spirit’s brideArt thou. No mortal can possess thee now,Loved inspiration of my life! I trowThou lovest me while we are side by side.No sorrow surely will this eve betide.Love’s heaven only our two hearts shall know,And for one hour leave life gladly so,As o’er the surface of love’s lake we glide.Ah, loved one! An emotion my heart swelleth,Even as I worship at thy sacred shrine,Which is the noblest life hath brought to me;So great, so holy, that no pen e’er telleth,Till God hath given man a sight of thee,And shown him one who seemeth half divine!
WHILE I gaze in thy dancing eyes, I seemUnable to imagine that thou artSo cruel as deep sorrow to impartTo one who holds thee in love’s high esteem.Who, from thy face, so like a child’s, could dreamThat such sweet loveliness did often startIn men love’s worship, only to depart,And leave them sinking in life’s treach’rous stream?Yet such thou art, in character, my love,Thou to whom I must dedicate my life,Praying to God that He may still give theeSome understanding of His realm above,And make thee willing to become my wife,Remaining in complete accord with me.
WHILE I gaze in thy dancing eyes, I seemUnable to imagine that thou artSo cruel as deep sorrow to impartTo one who holds thee in love’s high esteem.Who, from thy face, so like a child’s, could dreamThat such sweet loveliness did often startIn men love’s worship, only to depart,And leave them sinking in life’s treach’rous stream?Yet such thou art, in character, my love,Thou to whom I must dedicate my life,Praying to God that He may still give theeSome understanding of His realm above,And make thee willing to become my wife,Remaining in complete accord with me.
WHILE I gaze in thy dancing eyes, I seemUnable to imagine that thou artSo cruel as deep sorrow to impartTo one who holds thee in love’s high esteem.Who, from thy face, so like a child’s, could dreamThat such sweet loveliness did often startIn men love’s worship, only to depart,And leave them sinking in life’s treach’rous stream?Yet such thou art, in character, my love,Thou to whom I must dedicate my life,Praying to God that He may still give theeSome understanding of His realm above,And make thee willing to become my wife,Remaining in complete accord with me.
IN springtime, when pale primroses in flower,Oft interspersed with blue forget-me-nots,Are all in bloom, and the wild violet dotsThe mossy field, while many a floral showerOf new-mown hay falls in some shady bower,Then my own heart doth, like new garden-plots,Warm with the sun, that unto love allotsA portion of contentment as its dower.Thus in thy haloed presence let me sing,Lightheartedly, with thy dear hand in mine,Through many a waving, daisy-scattered field,Where summer doth succeed the reign of spring.And let mine arm thy being half entwineWith roses, or whate’er the seasons yield.
IN springtime, when pale primroses in flower,Oft interspersed with blue forget-me-nots,Are all in bloom, and the wild violet dotsThe mossy field, while many a floral showerOf new-mown hay falls in some shady bower,Then my own heart doth, like new garden-plots,Warm with the sun, that unto love allotsA portion of contentment as its dower.Thus in thy haloed presence let me sing,Lightheartedly, with thy dear hand in mine,Through many a waving, daisy-scattered field,Where summer doth succeed the reign of spring.And let mine arm thy being half entwineWith roses, or whate’er the seasons yield.
IN springtime, when pale primroses in flower,Oft interspersed with blue forget-me-nots,Are all in bloom, and the wild violet dotsThe mossy field, while many a floral showerOf new-mown hay falls in some shady bower,Then my own heart doth, like new garden-plots,Warm with the sun, that unto love allotsA portion of contentment as its dower.Thus in thy haloed presence let me sing,Lightheartedly, with thy dear hand in mine,Through many a waving, daisy-scattered field,Where summer doth succeed the reign of spring.And let mine arm thy being half entwineWith roses, or whate’er the seasons yield.
WITH every day that summer doth conceive(Like some good mother, happily confined)My love its simple homily doth findIn nature’s soft rejoicing, and receiveFrom winter’s sorrowing a just reprieve,And think on thee with joy and pain combined,When thou art absent, and of thy free mindReturn my sentiment, I do believe.A sweet condition to my soul is this,Bringing the blessedness of love from thee,Commingling with my own long-felt desire;And giving something of thyself to me.Ah, seal this thought with one delicious kiss;And let my heart to happiness aspire!
WITH every day that summer doth conceive(Like some good mother, happily confined)My love its simple homily doth findIn nature’s soft rejoicing, and receiveFrom winter’s sorrowing a just reprieve,And think on thee with joy and pain combined,When thou art absent, and of thy free mindReturn my sentiment, I do believe.A sweet condition to my soul is this,Bringing the blessedness of love from thee,Commingling with my own long-felt desire;And giving something of thyself to me.Ah, seal this thought with one delicious kiss;And let my heart to happiness aspire!
WITH every day that summer doth conceive(Like some good mother, happily confined)My love its simple homily doth findIn nature’s soft rejoicing, and receiveFrom winter’s sorrowing a just reprieve,And think on thee with joy and pain combined,When thou art absent, and of thy free mindReturn my sentiment, I do believe.A sweet condition to my soul is this,Bringing the blessedness of love from thee,Commingling with my own long-felt desire;And giving something of thyself to me.Ah, seal this thought with one delicious kiss;And let my heart to happiness aspire!
IKNOW a path of velvet green, that sinksFrom a fair hillside, underneath the treesThat blossom forth in May, and with the breezeShed scented flowers, all lined with summer pinksThat border it in petal-covered links.It seems a fairy lane, well fit to pleaseSome lover’s fancy, as the mood doth seizeThe heart and lead in time to wat’ry brinks.There with thee, Loved One, I would gladly stray;And wander o’er these grassy slopes, to findSaint Dorothy’s ascent toParadise,Uplifting, while ascending on our wayTo saintly bowers, among the woods enshrined,Where magic scenes our noblest thoughts entice.
IKNOW a path of velvet green, that sinksFrom a fair hillside, underneath the treesThat blossom forth in May, and with the breezeShed scented flowers, all lined with summer pinksThat border it in petal-covered links.It seems a fairy lane, well fit to pleaseSome lover’s fancy, as the mood doth seizeThe heart and lead in time to wat’ry brinks.There with thee, Loved One, I would gladly stray;And wander o’er these grassy slopes, to findSaint Dorothy’s ascent toParadise,Uplifting, while ascending on our wayTo saintly bowers, among the woods enshrined,Where magic scenes our noblest thoughts entice.
IKNOW a path of velvet green, that sinksFrom a fair hillside, underneath the treesThat blossom forth in May, and with the breezeShed scented flowers, all lined with summer pinksThat border it in petal-covered links.It seems a fairy lane, well fit to pleaseSome lover’s fancy, as the mood doth seizeThe heart and lead in time to wat’ry brinks.There with thee, Loved One, I would gladly stray;And wander o’er these grassy slopes, to findSaint Dorothy’s ascent toParadise,Uplifting, while ascending on our wayTo saintly bowers, among the woods enshrined,Where magic scenes our noblest thoughts entice.
NO time could hold my heart more fit than this,The vernal month, when summer’s early hours,Fanned by faint odors from the newborn flowers,Bespeak thyself, the thief of my heart’s bliss,And on thy cheek imprint the tender kissThat bringeth love within young Cupid’s bowers.Thus would thy magic touch, with subtle powers,Bring to my soul some metamorphosis.No more repine, O heart! No longer weep.No more heave sighs, or, sighing, be cast down.Nature her balm of sunshine bringeth thee,That in its warmth thou shalt her treasure keep.Let not my brow be shadowed by a frown;For love at last walks hand in hand with me.
NO time could hold my heart more fit than this,The vernal month, when summer’s early hours,Fanned by faint odors from the newborn flowers,Bespeak thyself, the thief of my heart’s bliss,And on thy cheek imprint the tender kissThat bringeth love within young Cupid’s bowers.Thus would thy magic touch, with subtle powers,Bring to my soul some metamorphosis.No more repine, O heart! No longer weep.No more heave sighs, or, sighing, be cast down.Nature her balm of sunshine bringeth thee,That in its warmth thou shalt her treasure keep.Let not my brow be shadowed by a frown;For love at last walks hand in hand with me.
NO time could hold my heart more fit than this,The vernal month, when summer’s early hours,Fanned by faint odors from the newborn flowers,Bespeak thyself, the thief of my heart’s bliss,And on thy cheek imprint the tender kissThat bringeth love within young Cupid’s bowers.Thus would thy magic touch, with subtle powers,Bring to my soul some metamorphosis.No more repine, O heart! No longer weep.No more heave sighs, or, sighing, be cast down.Nature her balm of sunshine bringeth thee,That in its warmth thou shalt her treasure keep.Let not my brow be shadowed by a frown;For love at last walks hand in hand with me.
NOW love returneth with new grace to me;For why not so, since thou dost come again,And bring fresh flowers of thought upon thy train,That cause my spirit thus in heaven to be?Ah! Couldst thou then but understand and seeWhat holier joys the heart, the soul contain,Than thy poor sense of fleeting flesh could fain,Thou mightest know love to eternity.For as I would endeavor to possessThe fulness of love’s wonderful attire,The knowledge of thy spirit is more sweet,For me to hold as mine, than that light dressEncircling it, though filled with beauty’s fire:Thy lovely form, with every charm replete.
NOW love returneth with new grace to me;For why not so, since thou dost come again,And bring fresh flowers of thought upon thy train,That cause my spirit thus in heaven to be?Ah! Couldst thou then but understand and seeWhat holier joys the heart, the soul contain,Than thy poor sense of fleeting flesh could fain,Thou mightest know love to eternity.For as I would endeavor to possessThe fulness of love’s wonderful attire,The knowledge of thy spirit is more sweet,For me to hold as mine, than that light dressEncircling it, though filled with beauty’s fire:Thy lovely form, with every charm replete.
NOW love returneth with new grace to me;For why not so, since thou dost come again,And bring fresh flowers of thought upon thy train,That cause my spirit thus in heaven to be?Ah! Couldst thou then but understand and seeWhat holier joys the heart, the soul contain,Than thy poor sense of fleeting flesh could fain,Thou mightest know love to eternity.For as I would endeavor to possessThe fulness of love’s wonderful attire,The knowledge of thy spirit is more sweet,For me to hold as mine, than that light dressEncircling it, though filled with beauty’s fire:Thy lovely form, with every charm replete.
THOUGH summer showers drown the seeds of love,And flood the garden where its blossoms bloom;Though fiery suns do dry the yellow broomUpon the bank, and parch the field above;Though autumn’s frost shall nip the flowery grove,And winter’s snow kill life in nature’s womb;Though men grow gray, and, tottering, reach the tomb,And all else die, and life no longer have:Yet will I guard thee in my bosom, dear,And seek to gain thy spirit for my own.For no such prize hath nature to bestowThat could so well disperse the shadow drear,Or offer to this heart, that ne’er hath grownAccustomed life without some love to know.
THOUGH summer showers drown the seeds of love,And flood the garden where its blossoms bloom;Though fiery suns do dry the yellow broomUpon the bank, and parch the field above;Though autumn’s frost shall nip the flowery grove,And winter’s snow kill life in nature’s womb;Though men grow gray, and, tottering, reach the tomb,And all else die, and life no longer have:Yet will I guard thee in my bosom, dear,And seek to gain thy spirit for my own.For no such prize hath nature to bestowThat could so well disperse the shadow drear,Or offer to this heart, that ne’er hath grownAccustomed life without some love to know.
THOUGH summer showers drown the seeds of love,And flood the garden where its blossoms bloom;Though fiery suns do dry the yellow broomUpon the bank, and parch the field above;Though autumn’s frost shall nip the flowery grove,And winter’s snow kill life in nature’s womb;Though men grow gray, and, tottering, reach the tomb,And all else die, and life no longer have:Yet will I guard thee in my bosom, dear,And seek to gain thy spirit for my own.For no such prize hath nature to bestowThat could so well disperse the shadow drear,Or offer to this heart, that ne’er hath grownAccustomed life without some love to know.
LIKE columbine in May, or rose in June,Like meadow flower, or clover in the morn,All moist with early dew, that laughs to scornThe sunbeam that destroyeth it at noon;Like scented lavender or rue, that soonDoth usher in the flow’ring ears of corn,To wave in glory, ere the wind hath tornTheir emerald leaves, beneath the harvest moon:Like this whole pageant of the season’s time,With all its glories rollèd into one,Art thou: the fairest treasure nature bringeth,Through every year and every age sublime:For in thine eyes the radiance of the sunCould warm each flower and every bird that wingeth.
LIKE columbine in May, or rose in June,Like meadow flower, or clover in the morn,All moist with early dew, that laughs to scornThe sunbeam that destroyeth it at noon;Like scented lavender or rue, that soonDoth usher in the flow’ring ears of corn,To wave in glory, ere the wind hath tornTheir emerald leaves, beneath the harvest moon:Like this whole pageant of the season’s time,With all its glories rollèd into one,Art thou: the fairest treasure nature bringeth,Through every year and every age sublime:For in thine eyes the radiance of the sunCould warm each flower and every bird that wingeth.
LIKE columbine in May, or rose in June,Like meadow flower, or clover in the morn,All moist with early dew, that laughs to scornThe sunbeam that destroyeth it at noon;Like scented lavender or rue, that soonDoth usher in the flow’ring ears of corn,To wave in glory, ere the wind hath tornTheir emerald leaves, beneath the harvest moon:Like this whole pageant of the season’s time,With all its glories rollèd into one,Art thou: the fairest treasure nature bringeth,Through every year and every age sublime:For in thine eyes the radiance of the sunCould warm each flower and every bird that wingeth.
COLD heart, that hath not felt some passing pain;Some aching or desire to be together;To wander hand in hand through heath or heather;Or something that doth move the simple swain!Were there not some possession thus to gainOf love, or lover’s wint’ry gale to weather,As we do follow life, I know not whether’Twould be not best from living to abstain.Then dead is he who hath not felt this joy,This joy and sorrow mingled in his soul;To seek for love, and feel its kindling flame,That doth old age and youth at once annoy,Yet holy treasures toward their threshold roll;For lovers’ tears and smiles are oft the same.
COLD heart, that hath not felt some passing pain;Some aching or desire to be together;To wander hand in hand through heath or heather;Or something that doth move the simple swain!Were there not some possession thus to gainOf love, or lover’s wint’ry gale to weather,As we do follow life, I know not whether’Twould be not best from living to abstain.Then dead is he who hath not felt this joy,This joy and sorrow mingled in his soul;To seek for love, and feel its kindling flame,That doth old age and youth at once annoy,Yet holy treasures toward their threshold roll;For lovers’ tears and smiles are oft the same.
COLD heart, that hath not felt some passing pain;Some aching or desire to be together;To wander hand in hand through heath or heather;Or something that doth move the simple swain!Were there not some possession thus to gainOf love, or lover’s wint’ry gale to weather,As we do follow life, I know not whether’Twould be not best from living to abstain.Then dead is he who hath not felt this joy,This joy and sorrow mingled in his soul;To seek for love, and feel its kindling flame,That doth old age and youth at once annoy,Yet holy treasures toward their threshold roll;For lovers’ tears and smiles are oft the same.
WHEN thou, dear one, hast lived as long as I,And seen the world give treasures unto youth(Like some swift river, rushing to its mouth),And drunk the cup of worldly pleasure dry,And felt enjoyment passing with a sigh,And in the night seen goblins all uncouthDance round the corse of pleasure, dead in truth,And in thine heart is echoed sorrow’s cry:Then mayst thou come, with me, Love, to believeThat better than all else, is to obtainThe heart’s affection of one single being,That unto thee like adamant may cleave;And lighten on its way life’s palsied pain;So that love’s heaven thou art alway seeing.
WHEN thou, dear one, hast lived as long as I,And seen the world give treasures unto youth(Like some swift river, rushing to its mouth),And drunk the cup of worldly pleasure dry,And felt enjoyment passing with a sigh,And in the night seen goblins all uncouthDance round the corse of pleasure, dead in truth,And in thine heart is echoed sorrow’s cry:Then mayst thou come, with me, Love, to believeThat better than all else, is to obtainThe heart’s affection of one single being,That unto thee like adamant may cleave;And lighten on its way life’s palsied pain;So that love’s heaven thou art alway seeing.
WHEN thou, dear one, hast lived as long as I,And seen the world give treasures unto youth(Like some swift river, rushing to its mouth),And drunk the cup of worldly pleasure dry,And felt enjoyment passing with a sigh,And in the night seen goblins all uncouthDance round the corse of pleasure, dead in truth,And in thine heart is echoed sorrow’s cry:Then mayst thou come, with me, Love, to believeThat better than all else, is to obtainThe heart’s affection of one single being,That unto thee like adamant may cleave;And lighten on its way life’s palsied pain;So that love’s heaven thou art alway seeing.
STRANGE law, whose reason man doth not possess,That underlieth every age and clime,That every human bosom must sometimeIts presence and its influence confess!Whether in youth’s own gay and careless dress,Or when old age doth feel the weight of Time,Or art describe, or poet paint with rhyme,Or warrior bold, or maiden in distress:This law of love its course must e’er pursue,And join two spirits in eternal bliss;Or each torment, with unresponsive thought,One loving, one love wishing to undo.Oh! may I not find love with thee like this,But still obtain what I so long have sought!
STRANGE law, whose reason man doth not possess,That underlieth every age and clime,That every human bosom must sometimeIts presence and its influence confess!Whether in youth’s own gay and careless dress,Or when old age doth feel the weight of Time,Or art describe, or poet paint with rhyme,Or warrior bold, or maiden in distress:This law of love its course must e’er pursue,And join two spirits in eternal bliss;Or each torment, with unresponsive thought,One loving, one love wishing to undo.Oh! may I not find love with thee like this,But still obtain what I so long have sought!
STRANGE law, whose reason man doth not possess,That underlieth every age and clime,That every human bosom must sometimeIts presence and its influence confess!Whether in youth’s own gay and careless dress,Or when old age doth feel the weight of Time,Or art describe, or poet paint with rhyme,Or warrior bold, or maiden in distress:This law of love its course must e’er pursue,And join two spirits in eternal bliss;Or each torment, with unresponsive thought,One loving, one love wishing to undo.Oh! may I not find love with thee like this,But still obtain what I so long have sought!
FROM Thee, Eternal Power, came my life,And by Thee was love born within my soul.Since I have felt Time and the hours toll,And have experienced my heart at strife,And felt it severed oft, as with a knife,I must with one good thought myself console.For since I may not consummate the whole,Nor reach the fulness of love when ’tis ripe;Then ne’ertheless have I account to giveWhen, unfulfilled in happiness, my daysIn number cease and I on high must go,To render unto Thee the life I live.So be it then, that in these passing laysI prove not faithless to the things I know.
FROM Thee, Eternal Power, came my life,And by Thee was love born within my soul.Since I have felt Time and the hours toll,And have experienced my heart at strife,And felt it severed oft, as with a knife,I must with one good thought myself console.For since I may not consummate the whole,Nor reach the fulness of love when ’tis ripe;Then ne’ertheless have I account to giveWhen, unfulfilled in happiness, my daysIn number cease and I on high must go,To render unto Thee the life I live.So be it then, that in these passing laysI prove not faithless to the things I know.
FROM Thee, Eternal Power, came my life,And by Thee was love born within my soul.Since I have felt Time and the hours toll,And have experienced my heart at strife,And felt it severed oft, as with a knife,I must with one good thought myself console.For since I may not consummate the whole,Nor reach the fulness of love when ’tis ripe;Then ne’ertheless have I account to giveWhen, unfulfilled in happiness, my daysIn number cease and I on high must go,To render unto Thee the life I live.So be it then, that in these passing laysI prove not faithless to the things I know.
MY hope had been, that I might find in theeThe soul’s ideal, as my love’s recompense,That Heaven her fairest flowers might dispense,In prodigal profusion unto me.But with Reality’s cold eyes I seeHow different doth fate, in truth, compenseThe disappointment of love’s blighted sense;And turn to rhymes the hope that cannot be.Oh, if thou shouldst outlive my broken heart,And in compassion see thy lover dead,And once behold on earth his crumbling bones,Thou wouldst find in these living lines a partOf what thou hast flung from thee, and must readLove’s epitaph upon the moss-grown stones.
MY hope had been, that I might find in theeThe soul’s ideal, as my love’s recompense,That Heaven her fairest flowers might dispense,In prodigal profusion unto me.But with Reality’s cold eyes I seeHow different doth fate, in truth, compenseThe disappointment of love’s blighted sense;And turn to rhymes the hope that cannot be.Oh, if thou shouldst outlive my broken heart,And in compassion see thy lover dead,And once behold on earth his crumbling bones,Thou wouldst find in these living lines a partOf what thou hast flung from thee, and must readLove’s epitaph upon the moss-grown stones.
MY hope had been, that I might find in theeThe soul’s ideal, as my love’s recompense,That Heaven her fairest flowers might dispense,In prodigal profusion unto me.But with Reality’s cold eyes I seeHow different doth fate, in truth, compenseThe disappointment of love’s blighted sense;And turn to rhymes the hope that cannot be.Oh, if thou shouldst outlive my broken heart,And in compassion see thy lover dead,And once behold on earth his crumbling bones,Thou wouldst find in these living lines a partOf what thou hast flung from thee, and must readLove’s epitaph upon the moss-grown stones.
GOD, through his offspring Nature, gave me love,Though man in opposition saith me nay,And taketh from my heart its life to-day,As through the valley of the world I rove.Still unaccompanied, within the groveThat doth enamored beings hold at play,My spirit must pursue its lonely way,And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above.Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desireTo have that which mankind may not possess,And force him to endure on earth hell’s fire,And live in one perpetual distress?Some evil power must such love inspire,And with it masquerade in Cupid’s dress!
GOD, through his offspring Nature, gave me love,Though man in opposition saith me nay,And taketh from my heart its life to-day,As through the valley of the world I rove.Still unaccompanied, within the groveThat doth enamored beings hold at play,My spirit must pursue its lonely way,And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above.Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desireTo have that which mankind may not possess,And force him to endure on earth hell’s fire,And live in one perpetual distress?Some evil power must such love inspire,And with it masquerade in Cupid’s dress!
GOD, through his offspring Nature, gave me love,Though man in opposition saith me nay,And taketh from my heart its life to-day,As through the valley of the world I rove.Still unaccompanied, within the groveThat doth enamored beings hold at play,My spirit must pursue its lonely way,And strive to pluck some flowers that bloom above.Oh, wherefore then doth Nature give desireTo have that which mankind may not possess,And force him to endure on earth hell’s fire,And live in one perpetual distress?Some evil power must such love inspire,And with it masquerade in Cupid’s dress!
WITH some, the law of love doth work at ease:To some it doth seem oft to make amends.To some the power of giving birth it sends;To others the dull pain of a disease.And yet how few this passion seems to please.At first its force to extasy it lends,Then deep into the depth of grief descends,And on the beauty of the soul doth seize.Yet, on the whole love is a mad possession,Taking from men the peacefulness of life,Bewild’ring warfare, with the heart’s obsession,That turneth Heaven into ceaseless strife,Now seeking love’s increase, now its repression,Until the maid be merged into the wife.
WITH some, the law of love doth work at ease:To some it doth seem oft to make amends.To some the power of giving birth it sends;To others the dull pain of a disease.And yet how few this passion seems to please.At first its force to extasy it lends,Then deep into the depth of grief descends,And on the beauty of the soul doth seize.Yet, on the whole love is a mad possession,Taking from men the peacefulness of life,Bewild’ring warfare, with the heart’s obsession,That turneth Heaven into ceaseless strife,Now seeking love’s increase, now its repression,Until the maid be merged into the wife.
WITH some, the law of love doth work at ease:To some it doth seem oft to make amends.To some the power of giving birth it sends;To others the dull pain of a disease.And yet how few this passion seems to please.At first its force to extasy it lends,Then deep into the depth of grief descends,And on the beauty of the soul doth seize.Yet, on the whole love is a mad possession,Taking from men the peacefulness of life,Bewild’ring warfare, with the heart’s obsession,That turneth Heaven into ceaseless strife,Now seeking love’s increase, now its repression,Until the maid be merged into the wife.
LET not the measure of my love make thineAught else but as it should be, true and sweet,Fair youth, who first thy sweetheart’s eye shall meet,Though thou mayst read the tragedy of mine.Oh, in thy heart make ready Cupid’s shrine.Prepare thy lips, that shall thy mistress greet,For kisses that denial may defeat,And on Love’s altar pour Love’s sacred wine.Let myrtle crown thy brow, lest, like my fate,Thou mayst find poison mingled in thy veins.Make lasting thine embrace, ere ’tis too late,And worms creep in, and mould leave deathly stains.Then may youth’s sunshine warm thy chosen mate;For nought so sweet as love through life remains.
LET not the measure of my love make thineAught else but as it should be, true and sweet,Fair youth, who first thy sweetheart’s eye shall meet,Though thou mayst read the tragedy of mine.Oh, in thy heart make ready Cupid’s shrine.Prepare thy lips, that shall thy mistress greet,For kisses that denial may defeat,And on Love’s altar pour Love’s sacred wine.Let myrtle crown thy brow, lest, like my fate,Thou mayst find poison mingled in thy veins.Make lasting thine embrace, ere ’tis too late,And worms creep in, and mould leave deathly stains.Then may youth’s sunshine warm thy chosen mate;For nought so sweet as love through life remains.
LET not the measure of my love make thineAught else but as it should be, true and sweet,Fair youth, who first thy sweetheart’s eye shall meet,Though thou mayst read the tragedy of mine.Oh, in thy heart make ready Cupid’s shrine.Prepare thy lips, that shall thy mistress greet,For kisses that denial may defeat,And on Love’s altar pour Love’s sacred wine.Let myrtle crown thy brow, lest, like my fate,Thou mayst find poison mingled in thy veins.Make lasting thine embrace, ere ’tis too late,And worms creep in, and mould leave deathly stains.Then may youth’s sunshine warm thy chosen mate;For nought so sweet as love through life remains.
ALL else may die: the leaves that Nature boreIn springtime soon may hear the autumn’s knell,And men likewise feel death’s o’erpowering spell;Ripe youth may fall, and age in time grow hoar;The moon doth wane, the sun sink from the shore;Fresh flowers fade, and lose their sweetest smell;Birds and their songs may vanish in the dell,And crumbling stones of cities be no more.Still shall my love, like love eternal, beUntouched by time; yet chastened by despair,And treasured in my heart, as all may see,Who would likewise their own true love declare.Thus in my soul, dear heart, would I hold theeTill God love’s injury at last repair.
ALL else may die: the leaves that Nature boreIn springtime soon may hear the autumn’s knell,And men likewise feel death’s o’erpowering spell;Ripe youth may fall, and age in time grow hoar;The moon doth wane, the sun sink from the shore;Fresh flowers fade, and lose their sweetest smell;Birds and their songs may vanish in the dell,And crumbling stones of cities be no more.Still shall my love, like love eternal, beUntouched by time; yet chastened by despair,And treasured in my heart, as all may see,Who would likewise their own true love declare.Thus in my soul, dear heart, would I hold theeTill God love’s injury at last repair.
ALL else may die: the leaves that Nature boreIn springtime soon may hear the autumn’s knell,And men likewise feel death’s o’erpowering spell;Ripe youth may fall, and age in time grow hoar;The moon doth wane, the sun sink from the shore;Fresh flowers fade, and lose their sweetest smell;Birds and their songs may vanish in the dell,And crumbling stones of cities be no more.Still shall my love, like love eternal, beUntouched by time; yet chastened by despair,And treasured in my heart, as all may see,Who would likewise their own true love declare.Thus in my soul, dear heart, would I hold theeTill God love’s injury at last repair.
OTHOU, fair youth, to whom the gods have givenThe gift of beauty and the power of love,Forget not that which cometh from above,And that affection is the child of Heaven.Remember in these lines, that I have strivenTo make thee honest, when, through Cupid’s groveThou dost with some fair maiden lightly rove,Not caring by what passion she be driven.For what thou hast thou holdest but in trust,Account of which thou must give when thou diest:To honor those, though thou mayst love them not,Who love thy soul, when flesh may turn to dust.For if to honor love thou rightly triest,Thy name shall live on earth without a blot.
OTHOU, fair youth, to whom the gods have givenThe gift of beauty and the power of love,Forget not that which cometh from above,And that affection is the child of Heaven.Remember in these lines, that I have strivenTo make thee honest, when, through Cupid’s groveThou dost with some fair maiden lightly rove,Not caring by what passion she be driven.For what thou hast thou holdest but in trust,Account of which thou must give when thou diest:To honor those, though thou mayst love them not,Who love thy soul, when flesh may turn to dust.For if to honor love thou rightly triest,Thy name shall live on earth without a blot.
OTHOU, fair youth, to whom the gods have givenThe gift of beauty and the power of love,Forget not that which cometh from above,And that affection is the child of Heaven.Remember in these lines, that I have strivenTo make thee honest, when, through Cupid’s groveThou dost with some fair maiden lightly rove,Not caring by what passion she be driven.For what thou hast thou holdest but in trust,Account of which thou must give when thou diest:To honor those, though thou mayst love them not,Who love thy soul, when flesh may turn to dust.For if to honor love thou rightly triest,Thy name shall live on earth without a blot.
BELIEVE not, gentle maid, that all is wonWhen first thou dost behold thy lover dear;Nor yet that all thy path lies fair and clearFrom love’s first charm until its work be done.A fickle child thou comest thereupon,Whom thou mayst learn in time to view with fear.Cupid, though young, may cast a shadow drear,Whose chilling gloom shall hide thee from the sun.A lovely valley may thy footsteps lure,All filled with flowers that for the fair are grown,Yet ’neath its depth lie pitfalls for the pure,And deep contagions that are oft unknown.Then happy art thou if thou holdst love sure,Thus to escape the menace of his frown.
BELIEVE not, gentle maid, that all is wonWhen first thou dost behold thy lover dear;Nor yet that all thy path lies fair and clearFrom love’s first charm until its work be done.A fickle child thou comest thereupon,Whom thou mayst learn in time to view with fear.Cupid, though young, may cast a shadow drear,Whose chilling gloom shall hide thee from the sun.A lovely valley may thy footsteps lure,All filled with flowers that for the fair are grown,Yet ’neath its depth lie pitfalls for the pure,And deep contagions that are oft unknown.Then happy art thou if thou holdst love sure,Thus to escape the menace of his frown.
BELIEVE not, gentle maid, that all is wonWhen first thou dost behold thy lover dear;Nor yet that all thy path lies fair and clearFrom love’s first charm until its work be done.A fickle child thou comest thereupon,Whom thou mayst learn in time to view with fear.Cupid, though young, may cast a shadow drear,Whose chilling gloom shall hide thee from the sun.A lovely valley may thy footsteps lure,All filled with flowers that for the fair are grown,Yet ’neath its depth lie pitfalls for the pure,And deep contagions that are oft unknown.Then happy art thou if thou holdst love sure,Thus to escape the menace of his frown.
LOVE heeds not time, nor space, nor form, nor woe,The seasons, slain by Cupid’s arrows, fadeLike misty spectres; and the night, remade,Gives place once more to day’s unceasing show.The past gave joy; the future pain must know.Reflection of itself makes love, ’tis said,Mirror the beauty of its thought, repaidA thousand times to lovers when they go.For which is most, experience or thought?Anticipation or sweet memory?The preparation for what love once brought;Or last, the dwelling on delight passed by?All these love still commands, through battles foughtWith passion, lust, desire, and life’s stern cry.
LOVE heeds not time, nor space, nor form, nor woe,The seasons, slain by Cupid’s arrows, fadeLike misty spectres; and the night, remade,Gives place once more to day’s unceasing show.The past gave joy; the future pain must know.Reflection of itself makes love, ’tis said,Mirror the beauty of its thought, repaidA thousand times to lovers when they go.For which is most, experience or thought?Anticipation or sweet memory?The preparation for what love once brought;Or last, the dwelling on delight passed by?All these love still commands, through battles foughtWith passion, lust, desire, and life’s stern cry.
LOVE heeds not time, nor space, nor form, nor woe,The seasons, slain by Cupid’s arrows, fadeLike misty spectres; and the night, remade,Gives place once more to day’s unceasing show.The past gave joy; the future pain must know.Reflection of itself makes love, ’tis said,Mirror the beauty of its thought, repaidA thousand times to lovers when they go.For which is most, experience or thought?Anticipation or sweet memory?The preparation for what love once brought;Or last, the dwelling on delight passed by?All these love still commands, through battles foughtWith passion, lust, desire, and life’s stern cry.
HAPPY my heart, and happier far was I,When ignorant of love’s entanglement;When I knew not its art or blandishment,And fearless passed young Cupid lightly by.Oh, happy hour! How vainly do I tryTo now regain my freedom, and repentThe days, the hours, the years that have beenIn giving birth to an unanswered cry!No. Not in the review of my life’s sinHave I found punishment, or court, or trial,Or sentence of mankind, or prison whereinI might drink drops of poison from a phial,Or retribution that could half beginTo be so bitter as love’s cold denial.
HAPPY my heart, and happier far was I,When ignorant of love’s entanglement;When I knew not its art or blandishment,And fearless passed young Cupid lightly by.Oh, happy hour! How vainly do I tryTo now regain my freedom, and repentThe days, the hours, the years that have beenIn giving birth to an unanswered cry!No. Not in the review of my life’s sinHave I found punishment, or court, or trial,Or sentence of mankind, or prison whereinI might drink drops of poison from a phial,Or retribution that could half beginTo be so bitter as love’s cold denial.
HAPPY my heart, and happier far was I,When ignorant of love’s entanglement;When I knew not its art or blandishment,And fearless passed young Cupid lightly by.Oh, happy hour! How vainly do I tryTo now regain my freedom, and repentThe days, the hours, the years that have beenIn giving birth to an unanswered cry!No. Not in the review of my life’s sinHave I found punishment, or court, or trial,Or sentence of mankind, or prison whereinI might drink drops of poison from a phial,Or retribution that could half beginTo be so bitter as love’s cold denial.
STRIVE as I would to banish from my mindThe witchery that thy fair presence giveth,I cannot kill the flower of love that liveth,By that same witchery, or leave behindThe subtle fragrance that doth still remindMy soul of one whose song forever singeth,Like some inhabitant of air that wingethAbove those treasures that on earth we find.For it is oft—as I indeed am now—With those who trample love beneath the heart.The more they seek to kill, or lay it low,The more it liveth with new-fashioned art,That causeth it, unwelcomed, still to grow,And thus deny that from it they shall part.
STRIVE as I would to banish from my mindThe witchery that thy fair presence giveth,I cannot kill the flower of love that liveth,By that same witchery, or leave behindThe subtle fragrance that doth still remindMy soul of one whose song forever singeth,Like some inhabitant of air that wingethAbove those treasures that on earth we find.For it is oft—as I indeed am now—With those who trample love beneath the heart.The more they seek to kill, or lay it low,The more it liveth with new-fashioned art,That causeth it, unwelcomed, still to grow,And thus deny that from it they shall part.
STRIVE as I would to banish from my mindThe witchery that thy fair presence giveth,I cannot kill the flower of love that liveth,By that same witchery, or leave behindThe subtle fragrance that doth still remindMy soul of one whose song forever singeth,Like some inhabitant of air that wingethAbove those treasures that on earth we find.For it is oft—as I indeed am now—With those who trample love beneath the heart.The more they seek to kill, or lay it low,The more it liveth with new-fashioned art,That causeth it, unwelcomed, still to grow,And thus deny that from it they shall part.