love poem

CCXLVII

I have been a lover
Full long and many days
And oft-times a prover
Of the most painful ways.
But all that I have passed
As trifles to this last.

By proof I know the pain
Of them that sue and serve
And nothing can attain
Of that which they deserve.
But those pangs have I passed
As trifles to this last.

I have ere this been thrall
And durst it never show
But glad to suffer all
And so to cloak my woe.
Yet that pang have I passed
As trifles to this last.

CLXVI

My love is like unto th'eternal fire
And I as those which therein do remain
Whose grievous pains is but their great desire
To see the sight which they may not attain.
So in hell's heat myself I feel to be
That am restrained by great extremity
The sight of her which is so dear to me.
O puissant love and power of great avail
By whom hell may be felt or death assail!

I cannot lose thee for a day,
But like a bird with restless wing,
My heart will find thee far away,
And on thy bosom fall and sing,
My nest is here, my rest is here; —
And in the lull of wind and rain,
Fresh voices make a sweet refrain,
" His rest is there, his nest is there."

With thee the wind and sky are fair,
But parted, both are strange and dark;
And treacherous the quiet air
That holds me singing like a lark,
O shield my love, strong arm above!

CLV

For to love her for her looks lovely
My heart was set in thought right firmly,
Trusting by truth to have had redress.
But she hath made another promise
And hath given me leave full honestly.
Yet do I not rejoice it greatly
For on my faith I loved so surely.
But reason will that I do cease
For to love her.

Since that in love the pains been deadly,
Methink it best that readily
I do return to my first address,
For at this time too great is the press
And perils appear too abundantly

Twin stars of light! whose blended rays
Illuminate the darkest road
Where fortune's roving exile strays,
When doubt and care the wanderer load,
And drive him far from joy's abode.

Propitious Love and smiling Hope!
Be you my guides, and guardian powers,
If, doom'd with adverse fate to cope,
I quit in Honour's rigid hours
These dear, these bliss-devoted towers.

Yet here, O still, most radiant! here
(Attend this prayer of fond concern)
To beauty's bosom life endear,
Presaging as ye brightly burn

Does Pity give, tho' Fate denies,
And to my wounds her balm impart?
O speak — with those expressive eyes!
Let one low sigh escape thine heart.

The gazing crowd shall never guess
What anxious, watchful Love can see;
Nor know what those soft looks express,
Nor dream that sigh is meant for me.

Ah! words are useless, words are vain,
Thy generous sympathy to prove;
And well that sigh, those looks explain,
That Clara mourns my hapless love.

Whether awaken'd from unquiet rest
 I watch “the opening eyelids of the Morn,”
When thou, O Sun! from Ocean's silver'd breast
 Emerging, bidst another day be born—
Or whether in thy path of cloudless blue,
 Thy noontide fires I mark with dazzled eyes;
Or to the West thy radiant course pursue,
 Veil'd in the gorgeous broidery of the skies,
Celestial lamp! thy influence bright and warm
 That renovates the world with life and light
Shines not for me—for never more the form
 I loved—so fondly loved, shall bless my sight;

Ye towers sublime! deserted now and drear!
Ye woods! deep sighing to the hollow blast,
The musing wanderer loves to linger near,
While History points to all your glories past:
And startling from their haunts the timid deer,
To trace the walks obscured by matted fern,
Which Waller's soothing lyre were wont to hear,
But where now clamours the discordant hern!
The spoiling hand of Time may overturn
These lofty battlements, and quite deface
The fading canvas whence we love to learn
Sydney's keen look, and Sacharissa's grace;

The night was a failure
but why not — — ?

In the darkness
with the pale dawn seething at the window
through the black frame
I could not be free,
not free myself from the past, those others —
and our love was a confusion,
there was a horror,
you recoiled away from me

Now, in the morning
As we sit in the sunshine on the seat by the little shrine,
And look at the mountain-walls,
Walls of blue shadow,
And see so near at our feet in the meadow
Myriads of dandelion pappus

No more, blind god! for see, my heart
Is made thy quiver, where remains
No void place for another dart;
And, alas! that conquest gains
Small praise, that only brings away
A tame and unresisting prey.

Behold a nobler foe, all arm'd,
Defies thy weak artillery,
That hath thy bow and quiver charm'd,
A rebel beauty, conquering thee:
If thou dar'st equal combat try,
Wound her, for 'tis for her I die.