love poem

If thou dost the number know
Of the Leaves on every Bough,
If thou canst the reck'ning keep
Of the Sands within the Deep;
Thee of all men will I take,
And my Loves Accomptant make.
Of Athenians first a score
Set me down; then fifteen more:
Adde a Regiment to these
Of Corinthian Mistresses;
For the most renown'd for fair
In Achaea , sojourn there;
Next our Lesbian beauties tell;
Those that in Ionia dwell;
Those of Rhodes and Caria count;
To two thousand they amount.
Wonder'st thou I love so many?

I'am not moved to love Thee, O my Lord,
By any longing for Thy Promised Land;
Nor by the fear of hell am I unmanned
To cease from my transgressing deed or word.
'Tis Thou Thyself dost move me, — Thy blood poured
Upon the cross from nailed foot and hand;
And all the wounds that did Thy body brand;
And all Thy shame and bitter death's award.

Yea, to Thy heart am I so deeply stirred
That I would love Thee were no heaven on high, —
That I would fear, were hell a tale absurd!
Such my desire, all questioning grows vain;

When Alpheüs leaves Pisa behind him and travels by the sea, he brings Arethusa the water that makes the wild olives grow; and with a bride gift coming, of pretty leaves and pretty flowers and sacred dust, he goeth deep into the waves and runneth his course beneath the sea, and so runneth that the two waters mingle not and the sea never knows of the rivers passing through. So is it that the spell of that impish setter of nets, that sly and crafty teacher of troubles, Love, hath e'en taught a river how to dive.

The Muses know no fear of the cruel Love; rather do their hearts befriend him greatly and their footsteps follow him close. And let one that hath not love in his soul sing a song, and they forthwith slink away and will not teach him; but if sweet music be made by him that hath, then fly they all unto him hot-foot. And if you ask me how I know that this is very truth, I tell you I may sing praise of any other, be he God or man, and my tongue will wag falteringly and refuse me her best; b u t if my music be of love and Lycidas, then my voice floweth from my lips rejoicing.

AESCHINAS

A very good day to master Thyonichus.

THYONICHUS

To Aeschinas the same.

AESCHINAS

Well met!

THYONICHUS

Well met it is; but what ails ye?

AESCHINAS

Luck's way's not my way, Thyonichus.

THYONICHUS

Oh! love while Love is left to thee;
Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;
The hour will come when bitterly
Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone!

And let thy breast with kindness glow,
And gentle thoughts within thee move,
While yet a heart, through weal and woe,
Beats to thine own in faithful love.

And who to thee his heart doth bare,
Take heed thou fondly cherish him;

Thyrsis: — Nymphs, who dwell among the waters of the Rhine, Pan, gay keeper of flocks, twi-horned Satyrs, hear me! Grant that Phyllis may love me more than she loves Amynta, or swiftly heal me with death.
Alcon: — O father, O Faunus, often we sang your love; I hung a pine-wreath upon your horns, and when Lydia shall bind your brows with crimson garlands, let her not scorn me for ever.
Thyrsis: — Hills, unshorn hills, soft meadows, Rhine flowing gently by, tell me, did Phyllis teach you to love her when she sang, or did she hurt you with her beauty?

Oh! Love is a terror, a terror; but why do I sob out his name?
For he crackles and glows with complaining, with cursing he bursts into flame!
It is strange how thou camest, Aphrodite, all wet from the sea that is gray,
But red and forever afire is this fruit of thyself and the spray!

I

The R HYME

Fair Babe, I bless thee who thou art,
God and His Kingdom's counterpart.

I worship, laud, and magnify thee,
and, Holy! Holy! cry thee.

Hereafter, as old rhyme hath sung,
Thou'lt taste both joy and sorrow among .
And, last, translated with his Saints,
Thou'lt live in Him who in thee paints
His own divine delineaments,
The Idol of our earthly sense.

II.

The R IDDLE

Simichidas, thou love-demented loon!
What haste is this, when no man's need doth call?
Surely the gods have witched thee. 'Tis high noon.
No creature else hath any strength at all;
The spotted lizard sleeps upon the wall;
The skiey larks drop earthward for the boon
Of one still hour; the ants forget to crawl.
Naught stirs except the stones beneath thy shoon.
Nay, but I know; not love impels thee thus;
Thy journey's end will bring a baser gain.
Some burgher's feast or vintner's overplus