love poem

A Small Poeme

FIRST WRITTEN 1642: BY THE SAME AUTHOR; TAKEN FROM THE ORIGINALL INTO THIS PLACE COPIED;
1.6.4.6.

Non est forma Satis, nec, quae vult' bella videri;
Debet vulgari more placere Sibi;
Dicta, Sales, lusus, sermonis gratia, risus,
Vincunt Naturae candidioris opus;
Condit enim formam, quicquid consumitur artis,
Et nisi velle subest, gratia tota perit.

TO CINTHIA; COYING IT

N OE LONGER Cinthia; have I spent

There was an old Derry down Derry,
Who loved to see little folks merry;
So he made them a Book,
And with laughter they shook,
At the fun of that Derry down Derry!

I ANTHE took me by both ears and said
You are so rash, I own I am afraid.
Prop, or keep hidden in your breast, my name,
But be your love as lasting as your fame.

Censured by her who stands above
The Sapphic Muse in song and love,
" For minding what such people do,"
I turn in confidence to you.
Now, Forster, did you never stop
At orange-peel or turnip-top,
To kick them from your path, and then
Complacently walk on agen?

Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throes
Of anger long burst forth;
Inconstantly the south-wind blows,
But steadily the north.

Thy star, O Venus! often changes
Its radiant seat above,
The chilling pole-star never ranges —
'Tis thus with Hate and Love.

On love, on grief, on every human thing,
Time sprinkles Lethe's water with his wing.

And if the rope
does not reach
down
far enough
into my heart,
who will fathom
the thoughts
at the bottom

A rowed-in boat,
run
aground
on a sandspit,
oarless
and alone —
like me,
weakened
by the blows
of the buffeting

Unforgettable
is the image
that from my eyes
descends in tears —
showering onto
my sleeves
with moonlight
at break of day.

It started to burn,
but the firewood
of my passion
has rotted through.
Now I wait
in the dying dusk
for the smoke