SINCE on thy form hath beauty laid its hand,And set its snare for thee and me likewise,Yet taught thee the Soul’s beauty to despise;And given thee no power to understandThe reason or the influence that plannedThe depth of life, yet still to temporize;How is such wanton thought to harmonizeWith love’s fierce fire by my strong passion fanned?O! Waste not then thy beauty in its youth;But turn it to account, lest thine own endShall find thee, left without an hair or tooth,All stripped of nature’s charm, which now may lendIts power, for thee to reproduce the truthOf that same beauty thou wouldst lightly spend.
SINCE on thy form hath beauty laid its hand,And set its snare for thee and me likewise,Yet taught thee the Soul’s beauty to despise;And given thee no power to understandThe reason or the influence that plannedThe depth of life, yet still to temporize;How is such wanton thought to harmonizeWith love’s fierce fire by my strong passion fanned?O! Waste not then thy beauty in its youth;But turn it to account, lest thine own endShall find thee, left without an hair or tooth,All stripped of nature’s charm, which now may lendIts power, for thee to reproduce the truthOf that same beauty thou wouldst lightly spend.
SINCE on thy form hath beauty laid its hand,And set its snare for thee and me likewise,Yet taught thee the Soul’s beauty to despise;And given thee no power to understandThe reason or the influence that plannedThe depth of life, yet still to temporize;How is such wanton thought to harmonizeWith love’s fierce fire by my strong passion fanned?O! Waste not then thy beauty in its youth;But turn it to account, lest thine own endShall find thee, left without an hair or tooth,All stripped of nature’s charm, which now may lendIts power, for thee to reproduce the truthOf that same beauty thou wouldst lightly spend.
IN those brief moments when thou wert my own,I drank a poison deadlier to my heartThan that which toucheth every vital part,And causeth man to tremble and to moanUntil the seeds of death be fairly sown,And he in palsied attitude doth startTo rise, before his spirit shall depart,And utter on this earth its final groan.That poison was love’s undisguised beliefThat I had found eternal happiness,True freedom from all ill, and true reliefFrom weary waiting and from loneliness.Ah! Cruel fate! Thou gavest but new grief,When I believed that Heaven my life would bless!
IN those brief moments when thou wert my own,I drank a poison deadlier to my heartThan that which toucheth every vital part,And causeth man to tremble and to moanUntil the seeds of death be fairly sown,And he in palsied attitude doth startTo rise, before his spirit shall depart,And utter on this earth its final groan.That poison was love’s undisguised beliefThat I had found eternal happiness,True freedom from all ill, and true reliefFrom weary waiting and from loneliness.Ah! Cruel fate! Thou gavest but new grief,When I believed that Heaven my life would bless!
IN those brief moments when thou wert my own,I drank a poison deadlier to my heartThan that which toucheth every vital part,And causeth man to tremble and to moanUntil the seeds of death be fairly sown,And he in palsied attitude doth startTo rise, before his spirit shall depart,And utter on this earth its final groan.That poison was love’s undisguised beliefThat I had found eternal happiness,True freedom from all ill, and true reliefFrom weary waiting and from loneliness.Ah! Cruel fate! Thou gavest but new grief,When I believed that Heaven my life would bless!
LET not thy beauty serve thee in the guiseOf some dark power, as it hath in the past.Make for thyself some beauty that may last,And for thy friends some gratitude likewise.Best that they should applaud thee to the skies,Than in old age thou shouldst aside be cast,And when thou diest be but death’s repast:Nought but cold clay (from which the soul should rise).Forget not that thy flesh must soon expire,And thy youth’s veil from off thy face be torn.Then must thou from deception soon retire,When outward beauty is by time outworn.Oh! I would see thy soul by love reborn:Thou for thyself; I for my heart’s desire.
LET not thy beauty serve thee in the guiseOf some dark power, as it hath in the past.Make for thyself some beauty that may last,And for thy friends some gratitude likewise.Best that they should applaud thee to the skies,Than in old age thou shouldst aside be cast,And when thou diest be but death’s repast:Nought but cold clay (from which the soul should rise).Forget not that thy flesh must soon expire,And thy youth’s veil from off thy face be torn.Then must thou from deception soon retire,When outward beauty is by time outworn.Oh! I would see thy soul by love reborn:Thou for thyself; I for my heart’s desire.
LET not thy beauty serve thee in the guiseOf some dark power, as it hath in the past.Make for thyself some beauty that may last,And for thy friends some gratitude likewise.Best that they should applaud thee to the skies,Than in old age thou shouldst aside be cast,And when thou diest be but death’s repast:Nought but cold clay (from which the soul should rise).Forget not that thy flesh must soon expire,And thy youth’s veil from off thy face be torn.Then must thou from deception soon retire,When outward beauty is by time outworn.Oh! I would see thy soul by love reborn:Thou for thyself; I for my heart’s desire.
WHEN I alone unto my chamber go,To fold the shroud of night about my heart,And mourn an empty day that doth depart;And with sad thought compose my spirit so;There cometh to me the dear form I know;And, conjured with imagination’s art,It bringeth thee, so living, that I start;And my glad tears upon thy bosom flow.But oh, for shame! That not thyself entireBe mine, as thou shouldst be, instead of this!On earth both flesh and spirit hold empire,Wherein is man the vassal of a kiss.Yet nature must I thank, as I retire,That though I hold thee not I know thy bliss.
WHEN I alone unto my chamber go,To fold the shroud of night about my heart,And mourn an empty day that doth depart;And with sad thought compose my spirit so;There cometh to me the dear form I know;And, conjured with imagination’s art,It bringeth thee, so living, that I start;And my glad tears upon thy bosom flow.But oh, for shame! That not thyself entireBe mine, as thou shouldst be, instead of this!On earth both flesh and spirit hold empire,Wherein is man the vassal of a kiss.Yet nature must I thank, as I retire,That though I hold thee not I know thy bliss.
WHEN I alone unto my chamber go,To fold the shroud of night about my heart,And mourn an empty day that doth depart;And with sad thought compose my spirit so;There cometh to me the dear form I know;And, conjured with imagination’s art,It bringeth thee, so living, that I start;And my glad tears upon thy bosom flow.But oh, for shame! That not thyself entireBe mine, as thou shouldst be, instead of this!On earth both flesh and spirit hold empire,Wherein is man the vassal of a kiss.Yet nature must I thank, as I retire,That though I hold thee not I know thy bliss.
WHEN all the world would smile in summer time,And bear the train of nature’s equipage;And love appeareth, as an appanage,To make each lover’s atmosphere sublime;Then would I take this pen and form a rhyme,That singeth of my three years’ vassalage(Still held in love’s unwilling peonage),That doth my spirit and my heart begrime.For how could love exalt, which hath, for long,Reduced me to so destitute a stateThat through each winter I must nurse my wrong,Until each spring shall bring thee, all too late?And when the summer cometh, my sad songIs only to deplore that I must wait.
WHEN all the world would smile in summer time,And bear the train of nature’s equipage;And love appeareth, as an appanage,To make each lover’s atmosphere sublime;Then would I take this pen and form a rhyme,That singeth of my three years’ vassalage(Still held in love’s unwilling peonage),That doth my spirit and my heart begrime.For how could love exalt, which hath, for long,Reduced me to so destitute a stateThat through each winter I must nurse my wrong,Until each spring shall bring thee, all too late?And when the summer cometh, my sad songIs only to deplore that I must wait.
WHEN all the world would smile in summer time,And bear the train of nature’s equipage;And love appeareth, as an appanage,To make each lover’s atmosphere sublime;Then would I take this pen and form a rhyme,That singeth of my three years’ vassalage(Still held in love’s unwilling peonage),That doth my spirit and my heart begrime.For how could love exalt, which hath, for long,Reduced me to so destitute a stateThat through each winter I must nurse my wrong,Until each spring shall bring thee, all too late?And when the summer cometh, my sad songIs only to deplore that I must wait.
ALITTLE flower in my garden groweth.“Love-in-a-mist” is given as its name.Another, of blood hue, beside the same,Doth droop and fall upon the wind that bloweth.This is the “bleeding heart.” Like mine, it knowethThe tragic reason for its early fame,By some sad chance, upon the earth it came;But soon, though full of bloom, asleep it goeth.Two emblems have I in these garden flowers.“Love-in-a-mist” thou must be still for me,Deep hidden in love’s own mysterious bowers,Where, all uncertain, I can scarcely see.Yet from my “bleeding heart” I gain new powers,Though trampled under foot and crushed by thee.
ALITTLE flower in my garden groweth.“Love-in-a-mist” is given as its name.Another, of blood hue, beside the same,Doth droop and fall upon the wind that bloweth.This is the “bleeding heart.” Like mine, it knowethThe tragic reason for its early fame,By some sad chance, upon the earth it came;But soon, though full of bloom, asleep it goeth.Two emblems have I in these garden flowers.“Love-in-a-mist” thou must be still for me,Deep hidden in love’s own mysterious bowers,Where, all uncertain, I can scarcely see.Yet from my “bleeding heart” I gain new powers,Though trampled under foot and crushed by thee.
ALITTLE flower in my garden groweth.“Love-in-a-mist” is given as its name.Another, of blood hue, beside the same,Doth droop and fall upon the wind that bloweth.This is the “bleeding heart.” Like mine, it knowethThe tragic reason for its early fame,By some sad chance, upon the earth it came;But soon, though full of bloom, asleep it goeth.Two emblems have I in these garden flowers.“Love-in-a-mist” thou must be still for me,Deep hidden in love’s own mysterious bowers,Where, all uncertain, I can scarcely see.Yet from my “bleeding heart” I gain new powers,Though trampled under foot and crushed by thee.
MY love makes of my life a sad display;All full of good desires within me born,Like youthful verdure in the early morn;Yet by its mischief ruining each day.No more have I the courage that shall say:“From such poor revenue let me be torn,Lest my life’s high estate be basely shorn,And I no longer have wherewith to pay.”No! still I hold to thy heart’s company,That would but seldom grant what I may use,Not knowing by what power thou holdest me;Yet giving all; that all must still refuse;Unless this line be writ upon the sky,And bring eternal life to this my muse.
MY love makes of my life a sad display;All full of good desires within me born,Like youthful verdure in the early morn;Yet by its mischief ruining each day.No more have I the courage that shall say:“From such poor revenue let me be torn,Lest my life’s high estate be basely shorn,And I no longer have wherewith to pay.”No! still I hold to thy heart’s company,That would but seldom grant what I may use,Not knowing by what power thou holdest me;Yet giving all; that all must still refuse;Unless this line be writ upon the sky,And bring eternal life to this my muse.
MY love makes of my life a sad display;All full of good desires within me born,Like youthful verdure in the early morn;Yet by its mischief ruining each day.No more have I the courage that shall say:“From such poor revenue let me be torn,Lest my life’s high estate be basely shorn,And I no longer have wherewith to pay.”No! still I hold to thy heart’s company,That would but seldom grant what I may use,Not knowing by what power thou holdest me;Yet giving all; that all must still refuse;Unless this line be writ upon the sky,And bring eternal life to this my muse.
IF in thyself doth all my love reside;And thou, the storehouse of love’s revenue,Holdest my happiness in full review;In thy dear eyes lies pain for me beside.Upon my heart thou ruthlessly dost ride,Grown callous to entreaty made anew.Though without hope that kindness may ensue,Let my blood flow to satisfy thy pride.Strange cruelty, enforced by Nature’s child!Thou, friendly in thy feeling, but grown cold;I, burned with Cupid’s fire and beguiled;Thou fearful, I the more by thee made bold;Thou, longing to be free, untamed and wild;I, young with love, though by its pain grown old.
IF in thyself doth all my love reside;And thou, the storehouse of love’s revenue,Holdest my happiness in full review;In thy dear eyes lies pain for me beside.Upon my heart thou ruthlessly dost ride,Grown callous to entreaty made anew.Though without hope that kindness may ensue,Let my blood flow to satisfy thy pride.Strange cruelty, enforced by Nature’s child!Thou, friendly in thy feeling, but grown cold;I, burned with Cupid’s fire and beguiled;Thou fearful, I the more by thee made bold;Thou, longing to be free, untamed and wild;I, young with love, though by its pain grown old.
IF in thyself doth all my love reside;And thou, the storehouse of love’s revenue,Holdest my happiness in full review;In thy dear eyes lies pain for me beside.Upon my heart thou ruthlessly dost ride,Grown callous to entreaty made anew.Though without hope that kindness may ensue,Let my blood flow to satisfy thy pride.Strange cruelty, enforced by Nature’s child!Thou, friendly in thy feeling, but grown cold;I, burned with Cupid’s fire and beguiled;Thou fearful, I the more by thee made bold;Thou, longing to be free, untamed and wild;I, young with love, though by its pain grown old.
THOUGH my true love should be my own undoing,In leading me where wisdom may disprove,Yet would I choose, in spite of all, to love,So I might have the triumph of thy wooing.Then might I feel that youth I were renewing;My heart’s sad livery for once remove;And I might ride through avenues aboveThe common path that life hath been pursuing.For nought could equal love, my love, with thee;Nor could I ever tire of thy praise,If thou all that I wish wouldst be to me,And my soul unto Heaven wouldst upraise.Since in love’s season lovers all agree,Then give me back what I lose in thy gaze.
THOUGH my true love should be my own undoing,In leading me where wisdom may disprove,Yet would I choose, in spite of all, to love,So I might have the triumph of thy wooing.Then might I feel that youth I were renewing;My heart’s sad livery for once remove;And I might ride through avenues aboveThe common path that life hath been pursuing.For nought could equal love, my love, with thee;Nor could I ever tire of thy praise,If thou all that I wish wouldst be to me,And my soul unto Heaven wouldst upraise.Since in love’s season lovers all agree,Then give me back what I lose in thy gaze.
THOUGH my true love should be my own undoing,In leading me where wisdom may disprove,Yet would I choose, in spite of all, to love,So I might have the triumph of thy wooing.Then might I feel that youth I were renewing;My heart’s sad livery for once remove;And I might ride through avenues aboveThe common path that life hath been pursuing.For nought could equal love, my love, with thee;Nor could I ever tire of thy praise,If thou all that I wish wouldst be to me,And my soul unto Heaven wouldst upraise.Since in love’s season lovers all agree,Then give me back what I lose in thy gaze.
THOUGH thou shouldst not perceive how love in meDoth play such havoc with my interest,That I am, as with penury, distrest;All torn by tragic thought and agony;Though thou mayst think it be no harm to seeThy lover with love’s wound upon his breast,Think not that by denying him ’tis bestTo foster for thyself life’s harmony.For though thou mayst deceive thy heart and mine,Posterity, by me, thy soul laid bare,Shall read the truth within this written line,And judge if in thy love thou hast been fair.All is, eternal honor may be thine,So thou prove not my muse and my despair.
THOUGH thou shouldst not perceive how love in meDoth play such havoc with my interest,That I am, as with penury, distrest;All torn by tragic thought and agony;Though thou mayst think it be no harm to seeThy lover with love’s wound upon his breast,Think not that by denying him ’tis bestTo foster for thyself life’s harmony.For though thou mayst deceive thy heart and mine,Posterity, by me, thy soul laid bare,Shall read the truth within this written line,And judge if in thy love thou hast been fair.All is, eternal honor may be thine,So thou prove not my muse and my despair.
THOUGH thou shouldst not perceive how love in meDoth play such havoc with my interest,That I am, as with penury, distrest;All torn by tragic thought and agony;Though thou mayst think it be no harm to seeThy lover with love’s wound upon his breast,Think not that by denying him ’tis bestTo foster for thyself life’s harmony.For though thou mayst deceive thy heart and mine,Posterity, by me, thy soul laid bare,Shall read the truth within this written line,And judge if in thy love thou hast been fair.All is, eternal honor may be thine,So thou prove not my muse and my despair.
TO thee all life is but a passing pleasure,No deeper than the thought within thy mind;And thy short love is of a lighter kindThan that which bringeth to my heart its measure.How wanton is thy waste of so great treasure!And oh, how little value dost thou find!How vacant is thy vision, and how blind!How empty is thy work, how vain thy leisure!Let all thy faults foregather on that day,When Love shall touch thee with his magic wand,And thou at last unto thyself shall sayThy breast is wounded, but thy heart is fond.Yet shall I love thy spirit, come what may,Though thou be old, and I be far beyond.
TO thee all life is but a passing pleasure,No deeper than the thought within thy mind;And thy short love is of a lighter kindThan that which bringeth to my heart its measure.How wanton is thy waste of so great treasure!And oh, how little value dost thou find!How vacant is thy vision, and how blind!How empty is thy work, how vain thy leisure!Let all thy faults foregather on that day,When Love shall touch thee with his magic wand,And thou at last unto thyself shall sayThy breast is wounded, but thy heart is fond.Yet shall I love thy spirit, come what may,Though thou be old, and I be far beyond.
TO thee all life is but a passing pleasure,No deeper than the thought within thy mind;And thy short love is of a lighter kindThan that which bringeth to my heart its measure.How wanton is thy waste of so great treasure!And oh, how little value dost thou find!How vacant is thy vision, and how blind!How empty is thy work, how vain thy leisure!Let all thy faults foregather on that day,When Love shall touch thee with his magic wand,And thou at last unto thyself shall sayThy breast is wounded, but thy heart is fond.Yet shall I love thy spirit, come what may,Though thou be old, and I be far beyond.
NOT clothed in transient beauty nor pale health,Like the night-blooming flower, that displaysIts fullest glory when the violet raysOf sunlight vanish, and, as if by stealth,The sable realm of night, the commonwealthOf all deceiving things, appears and stays,Till day doth swift disperse its tricks and plays:Not such art thou, endowed with nature’s wealth.But on thy cheek the peach-blush of the sunBlends with the russet touch of summer’s hand;And in thine eye, fresh youth, that fades not soon,Lives in perpetual triumph, that is wonFrom country joys, waving their magic wandBeneath the sunlit skies or silvery moon.
NOT clothed in transient beauty nor pale health,Like the night-blooming flower, that displaysIts fullest glory when the violet raysOf sunlight vanish, and, as if by stealth,The sable realm of night, the commonwealthOf all deceiving things, appears and stays,Till day doth swift disperse its tricks and plays:Not such art thou, endowed with nature’s wealth.But on thy cheek the peach-blush of the sunBlends with the russet touch of summer’s hand;And in thine eye, fresh youth, that fades not soon,Lives in perpetual triumph, that is wonFrom country joys, waving their magic wandBeneath the sunlit skies or silvery moon.
NOT clothed in transient beauty nor pale health,Like the night-blooming flower, that displaysIts fullest glory when the violet raysOf sunlight vanish, and, as if by stealth,The sable realm of night, the commonwealthOf all deceiving things, appears and stays,Till day doth swift disperse its tricks and plays:Not such art thou, endowed with nature’s wealth.But on thy cheek the peach-blush of the sunBlends with the russet touch of summer’s hand;And in thine eye, fresh youth, that fades not soon,Lives in perpetual triumph, that is wonFrom country joys, waving their magic wandBeneath the sunlit skies or silvery moon.
NO mind have I to tell thee all thou art,Yet giving half, how can I keep the rest,Since, knowing all, I see both worst and best,And may not then in truth withhold a part?Thy worst is like love’s dagger to my heart;Like Satan, in angelic vestment drest,That bringeth pain disguised into my breast.Such is thy worst. Let me thy best impart.Thy best is all thyself, thy beauty’s charm,Thy glance, thy smile, thy youth’s fair consciousness,Thy power to endear, to twine thine armWith subtle grace about love’s deep distress.Still, be it worst or best, thou dost me harm,Though bringing pleasure with thy soft caress.
NO mind have I to tell thee all thou art,Yet giving half, how can I keep the rest,Since, knowing all, I see both worst and best,And may not then in truth withhold a part?Thy worst is like love’s dagger to my heart;Like Satan, in angelic vestment drest,That bringeth pain disguised into my breast.Such is thy worst. Let me thy best impart.Thy best is all thyself, thy beauty’s charm,Thy glance, thy smile, thy youth’s fair consciousness,Thy power to endear, to twine thine armWith subtle grace about love’s deep distress.Still, be it worst or best, thou dost me harm,Though bringing pleasure with thy soft caress.
NO mind have I to tell thee all thou art,Yet giving half, how can I keep the rest,Since, knowing all, I see both worst and best,And may not then in truth withhold a part?Thy worst is like love’s dagger to my heart;Like Satan, in angelic vestment drest,That bringeth pain disguised into my breast.Such is thy worst. Let me thy best impart.Thy best is all thyself, thy beauty’s charm,Thy glance, thy smile, thy youth’s fair consciousness,Thy power to endear, to twine thine armWith subtle grace about love’s deep distress.Still, be it worst or best, thou dost me harm,Though bringing pleasure with thy soft caress.
OH, Love doth play such wanton tricks with men,That all their frailty is at once revealed,However much they wish it were concealed;For common wisdom lies beyond their ken.Like some slain victim toward a lion’s den,So are they led, when once to love they yield.The warrior tamed lays by his trusted shield;The youth, his youth; old age its reason then.In each condition is mankind disturbed,Played false, or in unguarded mood surprised,Made mad by overjoy, or else perturbedThrough sudden fear that love must be disguised.By some such thought my love alone is curbed,The which, I trow, thou hast ere now surmised.
OH, Love doth play such wanton tricks with men,That all their frailty is at once revealed,However much they wish it were concealed;For common wisdom lies beyond their ken.Like some slain victim toward a lion’s den,So are they led, when once to love they yield.The warrior tamed lays by his trusted shield;The youth, his youth; old age its reason then.In each condition is mankind disturbed,Played false, or in unguarded mood surprised,Made mad by overjoy, or else perturbedThrough sudden fear that love must be disguised.By some such thought my love alone is curbed,The which, I trow, thou hast ere now surmised.
OH, Love doth play such wanton tricks with men,That all their frailty is at once revealed,However much they wish it were concealed;For common wisdom lies beyond their ken.Like some slain victim toward a lion’s den,So are they led, when once to love they yield.The warrior tamed lays by his trusted shield;The youth, his youth; old age its reason then.In each condition is mankind disturbed,Played false, or in unguarded mood surprised,Made mad by overjoy, or else perturbedThrough sudden fear that love must be disguised.By some such thought my love alone is curbed,The which, I trow, thou hast ere now surmised.
NOT all the years of my uncounted painCould teach me wisdom to myself and thee;So I still love, and thou still holdest me;Nor all the torture of thy fair disdainWring from thy lips confession, or attainThe height of misery that love must beWhen, unexpressed, itself it may not freeFrom silent thought, or find some speech again.Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this,That I may find expression on its page;Though not the record of its perfect bliss,Yet, something of its value to mine age,Mixèd with poison from the fatal kissThat love still bringeth in its equipage.
NOT all the years of my uncounted painCould teach me wisdom to myself and thee;So I still love, and thou still holdest me;Nor all the torture of thy fair disdainWring from thy lips confession, or attainThe height of misery that love must beWhen, unexpressed, itself it may not freeFrom silent thought, or find some speech again.Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this,That I may find expression on its page;Though not the record of its perfect bliss,Yet, something of its value to mine age,Mixèd with poison from the fatal kissThat love still bringeth in its equipage.
NOT all the years of my uncounted painCould teach me wisdom to myself and thee;So I still love, and thou still holdest me;Nor all the torture of thy fair disdainWring from thy lips confession, or attainThe height of misery that love must beWhen, unexpressed, itself it may not freeFrom silent thought, or find some speech again.Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this,That I may find expression on its page;Though not the record of its perfect bliss,Yet, something of its value to mine age,Mixèd with poison from the fatal kissThat love still bringeth in its equipage.
AT least thou canst not say I have not loved,Make accusation fit time’s test of me.Bring all thy grievance to love’s court, and seeHow truly my devotion hath been proved,And what high motive hath my spirit moved.Bring all the powers to bear that lie in thee.At least thou canst not claim inconstancyAs comrade to that love by thee disproved.For this sad company my soul hath still,That is alike companion to my thought,Precursor of my fate and fate’s dark will;My mendicant desire that thou be broughtInto my life, my empty heart to fill,And there remain; my own and dearly sought.
AT least thou canst not say I have not loved,Make accusation fit time’s test of me.Bring all thy grievance to love’s court, and seeHow truly my devotion hath been proved,And what high motive hath my spirit moved.Bring all the powers to bear that lie in thee.At least thou canst not claim inconstancyAs comrade to that love by thee disproved.For this sad company my soul hath still,That is alike companion to my thought,Precursor of my fate and fate’s dark will;My mendicant desire that thou be broughtInto my life, my empty heart to fill,And there remain; my own and dearly sought.
AT least thou canst not say I have not loved,Make accusation fit time’s test of me.Bring all thy grievance to love’s court, and seeHow truly my devotion hath been proved,And what high motive hath my spirit moved.Bring all the powers to bear that lie in thee.At least thou canst not claim inconstancyAs comrade to that love by thee disproved.For this sad company my soul hath still,That is alike companion to my thought,Precursor of my fate and fate’s dark will;My mendicant desire that thou be broughtInto my life, my empty heart to fill,And there remain; my own and dearly sought.
OFTEN do I in meditation dreamThat in my garden thou art, with my flowers:To watch with me the foxglove, as it towersHigh o’er the feathery fern above the stream.The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam.The yellow poppies, born in summer hours,Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers,And nature in a lovely mood would seem.So thou, in my imagination, art.And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven,We twain, like children, each do play a part;Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven;Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to startAnd leave the goal for which we both have striven.
OFTEN do I in meditation dreamThat in my garden thou art, with my flowers:To watch with me the foxglove, as it towersHigh o’er the feathery fern above the stream.The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam.The yellow poppies, born in summer hours,Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers,And nature in a lovely mood would seem.So thou, in my imagination, art.And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven,We twain, like children, each do play a part;Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven;Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to startAnd leave the goal for which we both have striven.
OFTEN do I in meditation dreamThat in my garden thou art, with my flowers:To watch with me the foxglove, as it towersHigh o’er the feathery fern above the stream.The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam.The yellow poppies, born in summer hours,Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers,And nature in a lovely mood would seem.So thou, in my imagination, art.And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven,We twain, like children, each do play a part;Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven;Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to startAnd leave the goal for which we both have striven.
IF thou who readst this verse do find hereinMore tragedy than joyous thought exprest,Oh, marvel not, that grief should not be drestBy me, in bright array, to cloak my sin.My sin is love, love which I may not win;And by this fact is my heart overprestWith weight of sorrow, and my soul distrest,That I must end where others do begin.So, if thou seekest to find within this lineEnjoyment of a jest, pray put it by.’Tis simply for love’s elegy to twineA wreath of myrtle with a lover’s sigh.For if this verse were gay, ’twould not be mine,Since lacking of my true love’s love am I.
IF thou who readst this verse do find hereinMore tragedy than joyous thought exprest,Oh, marvel not, that grief should not be drestBy me, in bright array, to cloak my sin.My sin is love, love which I may not win;And by this fact is my heart overprestWith weight of sorrow, and my soul distrest,That I must end where others do begin.So, if thou seekest to find within this lineEnjoyment of a jest, pray put it by.’Tis simply for love’s elegy to twineA wreath of myrtle with a lover’s sigh.For if this verse were gay, ’twould not be mine,Since lacking of my true love’s love am I.
IF thou who readst this verse do find hereinMore tragedy than joyous thought exprest,Oh, marvel not, that grief should not be drestBy me, in bright array, to cloak my sin.My sin is love, love which I may not win;And by this fact is my heart overprestWith weight of sorrow, and my soul distrest,That I must end where others do begin.So, if thou seekest to find within this lineEnjoyment of a jest, pray put it by.’Tis simply for love’s elegy to twineA wreath of myrtle with a lover’s sigh.For if this verse were gay, ’twould not be mine,Since lacking of my true love’s love am I.
YET ne’ertheless would I make holiday;Exchange love’s martyrdom; be light of heart;Take note of others who enjoy love’s art;Make measurable sport of what I may;Seek men and women who are blithe and gay;Forget the past and love’s more cruel mart,Wherein doth sorrow play so large a part;And mirror life in a more mirthful way.Oh! that I might be now the youth I was,Before love’s mastery enslaved my soul:Free in my fancy, free from life’s stern laws,When love of life alone was my heart’s goal.Then hath it need of holiday, becauseFor long it heareth nightly love’s dirge toll.
YET ne’ertheless would I make holiday;Exchange love’s martyrdom; be light of heart;Take note of others who enjoy love’s art;Make measurable sport of what I may;Seek men and women who are blithe and gay;Forget the past and love’s more cruel mart,Wherein doth sorrow play so large a part;And mirror life in a more mirthful way.Oh! that I might be now the youth I was,Before love’s mastery enslaved my soul:Free in my fancy, free from life’s stern laws,When love of life alone was my heart’s goal.Then hath it need of holiday, becauseFor long it heareth nightly love’s dirge toll.
YET ne’ertheless would I make holiday;Exchange love’s martyrdom; be light of heart;Take note of others who enjoy love’s art;Make measurable sport of what I may;Seek men and women who are blithe and gay;Forget the past and love’s more cruel mart,Wherein doth sorrow play so large a part;And mirror life in a more mirthful way.Oh! that I might be now the youth I was,Before love’s mastery enslaved my soul:Free in my fancy, free from life’s stern laws,When love of life alone was my heart’s goal.Then hath it need of holiday, becauseFor long it heareth nightly love’s dirge toll.
OH! well have I examined my defect,And all my faults and follies, yet anew(Knowing, alas, too well, they be not few),And marshalled them, that I may thus detect,Which fault or folly love doth not protect,And which would separate my heart from you.From some like cause ’twould seem you must eschewThis proffered courtship, and my love reject.Then tell me, dear, the which I do adjureYour honor and your honesty to name.For ’tis my right, while my love doth endure,To ask if fault or scandal shall proclaimIts untoward presence, and your thought allure.For lies should not kill love, nor hurt my fame.
OH! well have I examined my defect,And all my faults and follies, yet anew(Knowing, alas, too well, they be not few),And marshalled them, that I may thus detect,Which fault or folly love doth not protect,And which would separate my heart from you.From some like cause ’twould seem you must eschewThis proffered courtship, and my love reject.Then tell me, dear, the which I do adjureYour honor and your honesty to name.For ’tis my right, while my love doth endure,To ask if fault or scandal shall proclaimIts untoward presence, and your thought allure.For lies should not kill love, nor hurt my fame.
OH! well have I examined my defect,And all my faults and follies, yet anew(Knowing, alas, too well, they be not few),And marshalled them, that I may thus detect,Which fault or folly love doth not protect,And which would separate my heart from you.From some like cause ’twould seem you must eschewThis proffered courtship, and my love reject.Then tell me, dear, the which I do adjureYour honor and your honesty to name.For ’tis my right, while my love doth endure,To ask if fault or scandal shall proclaimIts untoward presence, and your thought allure.For lies should not kill love, nor hurt my fame.
OH! what a thought hath filled my brain this night,And burned my fevered brow, as I suspectThat all these years, the love thou didst rejectWas, through strange chance, belittled in thy sightBy some foul slander or some worldly wight.Methinks some poisonous tongue doth intersectBoth love and friendship, and its shade reflectUnseen upon me, like some evil sprite.What’s this, that with a start I do behold,As darkness cloaks me round in cold embrace?Some goblin, born of fear, by fear made bold?Some lie that lives, yet dares not show its face?Some tale that knows ’tis false as soon as told?Such company my love doth poorly grace.
OH! what a thought hath filled my brain this night,And burned my fevered brow, as I suspectThat all these years, the love thou didst rejectWas, through strange chance, belittled in thy sightBy some foul slander or some worldly wight.Methinks some poisonous tongue doth intersectBoth love and friendship, and its shade reflectUnseen upon me, like some evil sprite.What’s this, that with a start I do behold,As darkness cloaks me round in cold embrace?Some goblin, born of fear, by fear made bold?Some lie that lives, yet dares not show its face?Some tale that knows ’tis false as soon as told?Such company my love doth poorly grace.
OH! what a thought hath filled my brain this night,And burned my fevered brow, as I suspectThat all these years, the love thou didst rejectWas, through strange chance, belittled in thy sightBy some foul slander or some worldly wight.Methinks some poisonous tongue doth intersectBoth love and friendship, and its shade reflectUnseen upon me, like some evil sprite.What’s this, that with a start I do behold,As darkness cloaks me round in cold embrace?Some goblin, born of fear, by fear made bold?Some lie that lives, yet dares not show its face?Some tale that knows ’tis false as soon as told?Such company my love doth poorly grace.
AND with the morn, though sunrise shall disperseThose phantoms that dark hours oft have sought,The spectral visage of some midnight thoughtDoth still unite its poison to my verse.In truth, suspicion makes a cruel nurse,A poor companion, that the world hath broughtTo tend the soul when, ill and overwrought,It reaches by such means a stage still worse.Let not my life, then, kill this tree of love,Nor canker-worm destroy its fresh green leaf,Nor moth devour its foliage from above;So that its ruin shatter my beliefIn love’s ideal and Cupid’s vernal grove.For love that doth prove false must die of grief.
AND with the morn, though sunrise shall disperseThose phantoms that dark hours oft have sought,The spectral visage of some midnight thoughtDoth still unite its poison to my verse.In truth, suspicion makes a cruel nurse,A poor companion, that the world hath broughtTo tend the soul when, ill and overwrought,It reaches by such means a stage still worse.Let not my life, then, kill this tree of love,Nor canker-worm destroy its fresh green leaf,Nor moth devour its foliage from above;So that its ruin shatter my beliefIn love’s ideal and Cupid’s vernal grove.For love that doth prove false must die of grief.
AND with the morn, though sunrise shall disperseThose phantoms that dark hours oft have sought,The spectral visage of some midnight thoughtDoth still unite its poison to my verse.In truth, suspicion makes a cruel nurse,A poor companion, that the world hath broughtTo tend the soul when, ill and overwrought,It reaches by such means a stage still worse.Let not my life, then, kill this tree of love,Nor canker-worm destroy its fresh green leaf,Nor moth devour its foliage from above;So that its ruin shatter my beliefIn love’s ideal and Cupid’s vernal grove.For love that doth prove false must die of grief.
NOT every prince, nor king, nor emperor liveth,After his years upon this earth pass by;Not every painter’s brush, nor poet’s sighBringeth to the world the passion that it giveth;Not every sculptor’s chiselled stone outlivethThe fell destruction of time’s tenancy;Nor men thought great, nor man’s inconstancy,Commit the sins that life’s last court forgiveth,Not such as these form that immortal band,Whose names adorn the temples of past ages.Nay, those decreed by nature to withstandThe deep emotions written o’er life’s pages.Their thoughts with all mankind go hand in hand,Their loves make one with genius and the sages.
NOT every prince, nor king, nor emperor liveth,After his years upon this earth pass by;Not every painter’s brush, nor poet’s sighBringeth to the world the passion that it giveth;Not every sculptor’s chiselled stone outlivethThe fell destruction of time’s tenancy;Nor men thought great, nor man’s inconstancy,Commit the sins that life’s last court forgiveth,Not such as these form that immortal band,Whose names adorn the temples of past ages.Nay, those decreed by nature to withstandThe deep emotions written o’er life’s pages.Their thoughts with all mankind go hand in hand,Their loves make one with genius and the sages.
NOT every prince, nor king, nor emperor liveth,After his years upon this earth pass by;Not every painter’s brush, nor poet’s sighBringeth to the world the passion that it giveth;Not every sculptor’s chiselled stone outlivethThe fell destruction of time’s tenancy;Nor men thought great, nor man’s inconstancy,Commit the sins that life’s last court forgiveth,Not such as these form that immortal band,Whose names adorn the temples of past ages.Nay, those decreed by nature to withstandThe deep emotions written o’er life’s pages.Their thoughts with all mankind go hand in hand,Their loves make one with genius and the sages.
HOW shall I all thy virtues here recount,Dear one, within the limit of this line;Or round thy brow a wreath of roses twine,To mark the passage of the years we mount;Or how, in this short verse, describe the fountOf love, within my heart, that is all thine?Within thy soul’s retreat a light doth shine,That maketh my return of poor account.Then of my homage take what is thy due,That which is mine to give, and free the giving.For all I have is now derived from you,The best of all that maketh life worth living:A gift of nature, given unto few,Though, when received, a cause for their thanksgiving.
HOW shall I all thy virtues here recount,Dear one, within the limit of this line;Or round thy brow a wreath of roses twine,To mark the passage of the years we mount;Or how, in this short verse, describe the fountOf love, within my heart, that is all thine?Within thy soul’s retreat a light doth shine,That maketh my return of poor account.Then of my homage take what is thy due,That which is mine to give, and free the giving.For all I have is now derived from you,The best of all that maketh life worth living:A gift of nature, given unto few,Though, when received, a cause for their thanksgiving.
HOW shall I all thy virtues here recount,Dear one, within the limit of this line;Or round thy brow a wreath of roses twine,To mark the passage of the years we mount;Or how, in this short verse, describe the fountOf love, within my heart, that is all thine?Within thy soul’s retreat a light doth shine,That maketh my return of poor account.Then of my homage take what is thy due,That which is mine to give, and free the giving.For all I have is now derived from you,The best of all that maketh life worth living:A gift of nature, given unto few,Though, when received, a cause for their thanksgiving.
’TIS strange, how little doth the world perceiveThe interchange of thought ’twixt thee and me;And how far distant from the truth it beWhen, guessing of my love, it doth deceiveItself and others, and some tale conceiveThat hath no setting for my heart or thee.Then happy are we that it doth not seeBeyond the false report it would receive.So thou, sweet one, unmarried to my loveThat all these years hath sought thee near at hand,And seen thee bud and flower, as I stroveTo wait till Cupid touch thee with his wand;So thou, upon some pedestal above,Locked in the secret of my heart shall stand.
’TIS strange, how little doth the world perceiveThe interchange of thought ’twixt thee and me;And how far distant from the truth it beWhen, guessing of my love, it doth deceiveItself and others, and some tale conceiveThat hath no setting for my heart or thee.Then happy are we that it doth not seeBeyond the false report it would receive.So thou, sweet one, unmarried to my loveThat all these years hath sought thee near at hand,And seen thee bud and flower, as I stroveTo wait till Cupid touch thee with his wand;So thou, upon some pedestal above,Locked in the secret of my heart shall stand.
’TIS strange, how little doth the world perceiveThe interchange of thought ’twixt thee and me;And how far distant from the truth it beWhen, guessing of my love, it doth deceiveItself and others, and some tale conceiveThat hath no setting for my heart or thee.Then happy are we that it doth not seeBeyond the false report it would receive.So thou, sweet one, unmarried to my loveThat all these years hath sought thee near at hand,And seen thee bud and flower, as I stroveTo wait till Cupid touch thee with his wand;So thou, upon some pedestal above,Locked in the secret of my heart shall stand.
THAT which we have we value not to-day,Yet when ’tis gone its absence we deplore.If fortune flieth and be ours no more,Its trail of sorrow passeth on our way,If by infirmity we cease to playThose truant games that childhood doth adore,Then are we all anxiety therefore;Since many long for youth when they grow gray.So thou, who hast not felt love’s fiercest pain,And all unconscious cast my love aside,Mayst wake to knowledge, and would love regainWhen I no longer on this earth reside,Remembered by my love, that shall remain;But thou, for killing me with thy false pride.
THAT which we have we value not to-day,Yet when ’tis gone its absence we deplore.If fortune flieth and be ours no more,Its trail of sorrow passeth on our way,If by infirmity we cease to playThose truant games that childhood doth adore,Then are we all anxiety therefore;Since many long for youth when they grow gray.So thou, who hast not felt love’s fiercest pain,And all unconscious cast my love aside,Mayst wake to knowledge, and would love regainWhen I no longer on this earth reside,Remembered by my love, that shall remain;But thou, for killing me with thy false pride.
THAT which we have we value not to-day,Yet when ’tis gone its absence we deplore.If fortune flieth and be ours no more,Its trail of sorrow passeth on our way,If by infirmity we cease to playThose truant games that childhood doth adore,Then are we all anxiety therefore;Since many long for youth when they grow gray.So thou, who hast not felt love’s fiercest pain,And all unconscious cast my love aside,Mayst wake to knowledge, and would love regainWhen I no longer on this earth reside,Remembered by my love, that shall remain;But thou, for killing me with thy false pride.
OH, chide me not, if in this life I makePoor tillage of the soil that men do plough;And hold me not transgressor, if I nowOf this world’s order would not so partake.Love’s harvester am I, my love at stake,And by lost love my thought, it seems, must grow.While others happy issue from it know,My soul may not produce till my heart break.Then plough, sad spirit, o’er the cheerless morrow,And though thy husbandry be but a line,Know that its fruit, born like a child of sorrow,May bear thy likeness, and be thy life’s signIn after years, so that the world shall borrowSome portion of the love that once was thine.
OH, chide me not, if in this life I makePoor tillage of the soil that men do plough;And hold me not transgressor, if I nowOf this world’s order would not so partake.Love’s harvester am I, my love at stake,And by lost love my thought, it seems, must grow.While others happy issue from it know,My soul may not produce till my heart break.Then plough, sad spirit, o’er the cheerless morrow,And though thy husbandry be but a line,Know that its fruit, born like a child of sorrow,May bear thy likeness, and be thy life’s signIn after years, so that the world shall borrowSome portion of the love that once was thine.
OH, chide me not, if in this life I makePoor tillage of the soil that men do plough;And hold me not transgressor, if I nowOf this world’s order would not so partake.Love’s harvester am I, my love at stake,And by lost love my thought, it seems, must grow.While others happy issue from it know,My soul may not produce till my heart break.Then plough, sad spirit, o’er the cheerless morrow,And though thy husbandry be but a line,Know that its fruit, born like a child of sorrow,May bear thy likeness, and be thy life’s signIn after years, so that the world shall borrowSome portion of the love that once was thine.
IF thou wert chainèd by the bans of life,And wedded to another, as thy lord,I well might pierce this heart as with a sword,And leave to love the virtue of a wife.But since thou holdest, by love’s hand, a knife,Made sharp by wit, thy maidenhood’s reward;Thou mayst so wound me by one fickle word,That I am all at enmity and strife.Unwedded then, save to youth’s foolish pride,Thou art still free, and chaste as virgin snow,That, taken in captivity, doth fade,And melt to water, clear as for a bride.Then surely I through frosty drifts may plough,To capture, in love’s chase, th’ unwedded maid.
IF thou wert chainèd by the bans of life,And wedded to another, as thy lord,I well might pierce this heart as with a sword,And leave to love the virtue of a wife.But since thou holdest, by love’s hand, a knife,Made sharp by wit, thy maidenhood’s reward;Thou mayst so wound me by one fickle word,That I am all at enmity and strife.Unwedded then, save to youth’s foolish pride,Thou art still free, and chaste as virgin snow,That, taken in captivity, doth fade,And melt to water, clear as for a bride.Then surely I through frosty drifts may plough,To capture, in love’s chase, th’ unwedded maid.
IF thou wert chainèd by the bans of life,And wedded to another, as thy lord,I well might pierce this heart as with a sword,And leave to love the virtue of a wife.But since thou holdest, by love’s hand, a knife,Made sharp by wit, thy maidenhood’s reward;Thou mayst so wound me by one fickle word,That I am all at enmity and strife.Unwedded then, save to youth’s foolish pride,Thou art still free, and chaste as virgin snow,That, taken in captivity, doth fade,And melt to water, clear as for a bride.Then surely I through frosty drifts may plough,To capture, in love’s chase, th’ unwedded maid.
THOU art, in truth, my muse’s only guide,That fashions by this pen thine image here,Developèd, through loving, year by year:The picture of thy beauty and thy pride.For all my verse doth hold, thou dost decide,Since, writing, I the thought of thee hold dear,And must portray thy very joy and fear,This mirror and thyself stand side by side.Then, should thy true resemblance live herein(An only offspring of my love, for me),I treasure this thy likeness as my child;And think thereon, as I do think on thee.For thou art both my angel and my sin;Since ’twas my sin to be by thee beguiled.
THOU art, in truth, my muse’s only guide,That fashions by this pen thine image here,Developèd, through loving, year by year:The picture of thy beauty and thy pride.For all my verse doth hold, thou dost decide,Since, writing, I the thought of thee hold dear,And must portray thy very joy and fear,This mirror and thyself stand side by side.Then, should thy true resemblance live herein(An only offspring of my love, for me),I treasure this thy likeness as my child;And think thereon, as I do think on thee.For thou art both my angel and my sin;Since ’twas my sin to be by thee beguiled.
THOU art, in truth, my muse’s only guide,That fashions by this pen thine image here,Developèd, through loving, year by year:The picture of thy beauty and thy pride.For all my verse doth hold, thou dost decide,Since, writing, I the thought of thee hold dear,And must portray thy very joy and fear,This mirror and thyself stand side by side.Then, should thy true resemblance live herein(An only offspring of my love, for me),I treasure this thy likeness as my child;And think thereon, as I do think on thee.For thou art both my angel and my sin;Since ’twas my sin to be by thee beguiled.
BACK from the sculptured chantry of the past,The chiselled forms of memory appear,Like stately sentinels of night, yet dearAnd welcome, as they gather swift and fast;Fast on the heels of love, returned at last,And swift, as recollection draweth near.The songs of th’ exalted choir ring so clear,They echo thoughts that time hath long recast.Old chambers of the mind lie thus exposed,By some strange magic, moved with nature’s wand,And furnished by deft hands. Doors, once fast closed,Are opened to admit the wondrous bandOf spiritual workmen, unopposed,Who build anew things fashioned by our hand.
BACK from the sculptured chantry of the past,The chiselled forms of memory appear,Like stately sentinels of night, yet dearAnd welcome, as they gather swift and fast;Fast on the heels of love, returned at last,And swift, as recollection draweth near.The songs of th’ exalted choir ring so clear,They echo thoughts that time hath long recast.Old chambers of the mind lie thus exposed,By some strange magic, moved with nature’s wand,And furnished by deft hands. Doors, once fast closed,Are opened to admit the wondrous bandOf spiritual workmen, unopposed,Who build anew things fashioned by our hand.
BACK from the sculptured chantry of the past,The chiselled forms of memory appear,Like stately sentinels of night, yet dearAnd welcome, as they gather swift and fast;Fast on the heels of love, returned at last,And swift, as recollection draweth near.The songs of th’ exalted choir ring so clear,They echo thoughts that time hath long recast.Old chambers of the mind lie thus exposed,By some strange magic, moved with nature’s wand,And furnished by deft hands. Doors, once fast closed,Are opened to admit the wondrous bandOf spiritual workmen, unopposed,Who build anew things fashioned by our hand.
IF all the value of my love is this,That by its pain my verse may have some lasting,Oh, let it bear the fruit of my long fasting;Not in fulfilment of its end remiss,But yielding somewhat of that holy blissDenied me, though on others its joy casting.No youthful heart, no hope let me be blasting;No maiden keep from her true lover’s kiss.Then end thy tale, sad heart that in me dieth,For want of sunshine from my love’s sweet smile.Give unto life the love that in thee lieth;Since what thou lovest only would defile.Gain for thyself the name of one who triethLove’s truth to teach, though sorrowing the while.
IF all the value of my love is this,That by its pain my verse may have some lasting,Oh, let it bear the fruit of my long fasting;Not in fulfilment of its end remiss,But yielding somewhat of that holy blissDenied me, though on others its joy casting.No youthful heart, no hope let me be blasting;No maiden keep from her true lover’s kiss.Then end thy tale, sad heart that in me dieth,For want of sunshine from my love’s sweet smile.Give unto life the love that in thee lieth;Since what thou lovest only would defile.Gain for thyself the name of one who triethLove’s truth to teach, though sorrowing the while.
IF all the value of my love is this,That by its pain my verse may have some lasting,Oh, let it bear the fruit of my long fasting;Not in fulfilment of its end remiss,But yielding somewhat of that holy blissDenied me, though on others its joy casting.No youthful heart, no hope let me be blasting;No maiden keep from her true lover’s kiss.Then end thy tale, sad heart that in me dieth,For want of sunshine from my love’s sweet smile.Give unto life the love that in thee lieth;Since what thou lovest only would defile.Gain for thyself the name of one who triethLove’s truth to teach, though sorrowing the while.
OH! lay aside thy pen, since thou must singForever in a mournful minor key,And let the world thy disappointment see,And hear the death-knell of thy spirit ring.Why write of love, since love thou canst not bringWithin thy craving heart, that still must beUnsatisfied? Why on thy bended kneeBeg life from some cold, adamantine thing?Yet at this final moment, more than e’er,Dost thou seem near to me, dear heart, and moreThan when first found, dost thou seem sweet and fair,And of my love possess a greater store!Then though my voice be still, and dead the air,In silence must I thy dear self adore.
OH! lay aside thy pen, since thou must singForever in a mournful minor key,And let the world thy disappointment see,And hear the death-knell of thy spirit ring.Why write of love, since love thou canst not bringWithin thy craving heart, that still must beUnsatisfied? Why on thy bended kneeBeg life from some cold, adamantine thing?Yet at this final moment, more than e’er,Dost thou seem near to me, dear heart, and moreThan when first found, dost thou seem sweet and fair,And of my love possess a greater store!Then though my voice be still, and dead the air,In silence must I thy dear self adore.
OH! lay aside thy pen, since thou must singForever in a mournful minor key,And let the world thy disappointment see,And hear the death-knell of thy spirit ring.Why write of love, since love thou canst not bringWithin thy craving heart, that still must beUnsatisfied? Why on thy bended kneeBeg life from some cold, adamantine thing?Yet at this final moment, more than e’er,Dost thou seem near to me, dear heart, and moreThan when first found, dost thou seem sweet and fair,And of my love possess a greater store!Then though my voice be still, and dead the air,In silence must I thy dear self adore.
THE Wounded Eros fell upon the ground,His bow and quiver lying at his side;The one destroyed, the other but half tried.An arrow, aimed at man, its way had foundBeneath the child’s soft flesh; and with a soundAt once both sweet and sad, he sank and criedIn pain to Venus, beauty’s queen and bride,As she descended from the heavenly mound.So with mankind: Love, wounded, may be seen,Felled by his own swift shaft, that poison brings,Instead of peace or gladness, to his heart.Filled with the vision of what might have been,He treasures still the very thought that clings,Like sable night, though from it he would part.
THE Wounded Eros fell upon the ground,His bow and quiver lying at his side;The one destroyed, the other but half tried.An arrow, aimed at man, its way had foundBeneath the child’s soft flesh; and with a soundAt once both sweet and sad, he sank and criedIn pain to Venus, beauty’s queen and bride,As she descended from the heavenly mound.So with mankind: Love, wounded, may be seen,Felled by his own swift shaft, that poison brings,Instead of peace or gladness, to his heart.Filled with the vision of what might have been,He treasures still the very thought that clings,Like sable night, though from it he would part.
THE Wounded Eros fell upon the ground,His bow and quiver lying at his side;The one destroyed, the other but half tried.An arrow, aimed at man, its way had foundBeneath the child’s soft flesh; and with a soundAt once both sweet and sad, he sank and criedIn pain to Venus, beauty’s queen and bride,As she descended from the heavenly mound.So with mankind: Love, wounded, may be seen,Felled by his own swift shaft, that poison brings,Instead of peace or gladness, to his heart.Filled with the vision of what might have been,He treasures still the very thought that clings,Like sable night, though from it he would part.
OTHOU, fair one, who never shalt be known,Though ages cover thy frail bones with dust,And time displace the greed of worldly lust;Thou, whose gay spirit to my heart hath shownHow great love may become when once full-grown:Thou, who hast been the fullness of my trustIn all things born of love’s fierce fire,—and must,Perforce, hold o’er thy head love’s magic crown:Take all I have. I lay it at thy feet.Poor though it be, ’tis thine. O ask not why!Within these lines both joy and sorrow greetThe lenient friend, who hath not passed them by.And may those lovers, who have found love sweet,Judge both our hearts when in the grave we lie.
OTHOU, fair one, who never shalt be known,Though ages cover thy frail bones with dust,And time displace the greed of worldly lust;Thou, whose gay spirit to my heart hath shownHow great love may become when once full-grown:Thou, who hast been the fullness of my trustIn all things born of love’s fierce fire,—and must,Perforce, hold o’er thy head love’s magic crown:Take all I have. I lay it at thy feet.Poor though it be, ’tis thine. O ask not why!Within these lines both joy and sorrow greetThe lenient friend, who hath not passed them by.And may those lovers, who have found love sweet,Judge both our hearts when in the grave we lie.
OTHOU, fair one, who never shalt be known,Though ages cover thy frail bones with dust,And time displace the greed of worldly lust;Thou, whose gay spirit to my heart hath shownHow great love may become when once full-grown:Thou, who hast been the fullness of my trustIn all things born of love’s fierce fire,—and must,Perforce, hold o’er thy head love’s magic crown:Take all I have. I lay it at thy feet.Poor though it be, ’tis thine. O ask not why!Within these lines both joy and sorrow greetThe lenient friend, who hath not passed them by.And may those lovers, who have found love sweet,Judge both our hearts when in the grave we lie.