Who know thee, love: thy life be such
    That, ere the year be o'er,
Each one who loves thee now so much,
    Even God, may love thee more!

    Fair one! embodiment of Loveliness!
    Angelic beauty beams upon thy countenance,
    And from its image of Lucretian purity
    Thine inborn virtue shines divinely forth.

    Thy sparkling eyes of bright cerulean blue,
    Rich sapphire gems, flash with Arcadian artlessness,
    Impelling Cupid's arrows, passion-fraught,
    Discharged from bow of myrtle 'gainst my heart,
    Which throbs and flutters, quivering from the thrust.

Many a beauteous flower doth spring
From the tears that flood my eyes,
And the nightingale doth sing
In the burthen of my sighs.

If, O child, thou lovest me,
Take these flowerets fair and frail,
And my soul shall waft to thee
Love songs of the nightingale.

O soul of life, 't is thee we long to hear,
Thine eyes we seek for, and thy touch we dream;
Lost from our days, thou art a spirit near, -
Life needs thine eloquence, and ways supreme.
More real than we who but a semblance wear,
We see thee not, because thou wilt not seem!

Love lives beyond
The tomb, the earth, which fades like dew!
I love the fond,
The faithful, and the true.

Love lives in sleep,
The happiness of healthy dreams:
Eve's dews may weep,
But love delightful seems.

Tis seen in flowers,
And in the morning's pearly dew;
In earth's green hours,
And in the heaven's eternal blue.

Tis heard in Spring
When light and sunbeams, warm and kind,
On angel's wing
Bring love and music to the mind.

And where is voice,
So young, so beautiful, and sweet
As Nature's choice,
Where Spring and lovers meet?

Love lives beyond
The tomb, the earth, the flowers, and dew.
I love the fond,
The faithful, young and true.

I have known a thousand pleasures, -
    Love is best -
Ocean's songs and forest treasures,
    Work and rest,
Jewelled joys of dear existence,
Triumph over Fate's resistance,
But to prove, through Time's wide distance,
    Love is best.

Love!--what is love? a mere machine, a spring
For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing,
A point to which each scribbling wight most steer,
Or vainly hope for food or favour here;
A summer's sigh; a winter's wistful tale:
A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale;
Her soft eyes languish, and her bosom heaves,
And Hope delights as Fancy's dream deceives.

Thus speaks the heart which cold disgust invades,
When time instructs, and Hope's enchantment fades;
Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings,
The puppets move, as art directs the strings:
Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold,
Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold;
And affectation swells th' entrancing tones,
Which nature subjugates, and truth disowns.

I love th' ingenuous...

Love me for what I am, Love. Not for sake
Of some imagined thing which I might be,
Some brightness or some goodness not in me,
Born of your hope, as dawn to eyes that wake
Imagined morns before the morning break.
If I, to please you (whom I fain would please),
Reset myself like new key to old tune,
Chained thought, remodelled action, very soon
My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees
The loving, faulty friend, so close to-day,
Would vanish, and another take her place,--
A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies,
A new regard, an unfamiliar face.
Love me for what I am, then, if you may;
But, if you cannot,--love me either way.

She sat with fear in her eyes
Contemplating the upturned cup
She said "Do not be sad, my son
You are destined to fall in love"
My son, Who sacrifices himself for his beloved,
Is a martyr


For long have I studied fortune-telling
But never have I read a cup similar to yours
For long have I studied fortune-telling
But never have I seen sorrows similar to yours
You are predestined to sail forever
Sail-less, on the sea of love
Your life is forever destined
To be a book of tears
And be imprisoned
Between water and fire


But despite all its pains,
Despite the sadness
That is with us day and night
Despite the wind
The rainy weather
And the cyclone
It is love, my son
That will be forever the best of fates

When I look on thee and feel how dear,
    How pure, and how fair thou art,
Into my eyes there steals a tear,
And a shadow mingled of love and fear
    Creeps slowly over my heart.

And my very hands feel as if they would lay
    Themselves on thy fair young head,
And pray the good God to keep thee alway
As good and lovely, as pure and gay, -
    When I and my wild love are dead.

Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.

And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb,
And full Dolorum Omnium,
Excepting when you choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendsh...

New days are dear, and cannot be unloved,
Though in deep grief we mourn, and cling to death;
Who has not known, in living on, a breath
Of infinite joy that has life's rapture proved?

If I have thought that in this rainbow world
The best we see was but a preface given
Of infinite greater tints in heaven,
And life or no, heaven yet would be unfurl'd, -

I did belie the soul-wide joys of earth,
And feelings deep as lights that dwell in seas.
Can heaven itself outlove such depths as these?
Live on! Life holds more than we dream of worth!

        O yes, I love you, and with all my heart;
    Just as a weaker woman loves her own,
        Better than I love my beloved art,
    Which, till you came, reigned royally, alone,
        My king, my master. Since I saw your face
        I have dethroned it, and you hold that place.

        I am as weak as other women are:
    Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb;
        Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far.
    Sometimes I think there is not space or room
        In all the earth for such a love as mine,
        And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.

        I know that your desertion or neglect
    Could break my heart, as women's hearts do break.
        If my wan days had nothing to expect
    From your love's splen...

    When in the womb of Time our souls' own son
    Dear Love lay sleeping till his natal hour,
    Long months I knew not that sweet life begun,
    Too dimly treasuring thy touch of power;
        And wandering all those days
        By far-off ways,
    Forgot immortal seed must have immortal flower.

    Only, beloved, since my beloved thou art
    I do remember, now that memory's vain,
    How twice or thrice beneath my beating heart
    Life quickened suddenly with proudest pain.
        Then dreamed I Love's increase,
        Yet held my peace
    Till I might render thee thy own great gift again.

    For as with bodies, so with souls it is,
    The greater gives, the lesser doth conceive:
    That thou hast fathered Love, I tell thee this,

Oh, isn't it nice to be somebody's? -
Somebody's darling and pet,
To be shrined in the heart of a dear one,
Whose absence fills soul with regret?
To be dreamed of, and longed for, and courted,
As the Queen whom his heart holds in thrall, -
As the one - the great one, priceless jewel,
That outweighs and outvalues them all?

Oh, - I'd rather my head should be resting,
On the breast of the man that I love;
And my hand in his strong grasp be nestling,
And bask in the light of his love: -
I would rather, - far rather, my darling
Should be loving, and faithful, and brave,
Than be titled, and wealthy, and fickle; -
E'en though poverty held him a slave.

Oh, my heart yearns for one that is noble, -
In mind, not in riches or birth,
Who would love me...

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace:
How happy should I prove,
Could I supply that envied place
With never-fading love.

Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows,
This pure, unsullied gem,
Love's emblem in a full-blown rose,
Just broken from the stem.

Accept it as a favourite flower
For thy soft breast to wear;
'Twill blossom there its transient hour,
A favourite of the fair.

Upon thy cheek its blossom glows,
As from a mirror clear,
Making thyself a living rose,
In blossom all the year.

It is a sweet and favourite flower
To grace a maiden's brow,
Emblem of love without its power--
A sweeter rose art thou.

The rose, like hues of insect wing,
May perish in an hour;
'T is but at best a fading thing,
But thou'...