love poem

I.

I have been wont to bear my head on high,
Haughty and stern am I of mood and mien;
Yea, tho' a king should gaze on me, I ween,
I should not at his gaze cast down my eye.

But I will speak, dear Mother, candidly:
When most puffed up my haughty mood hath been,
At thy sweet presence, blissful and serene,
I feel the shudder of humility.

Does thy soul all unknown my soul subdue,

With myrtles and roses, tender and fair,
With funeral cypress, and gilding rare,
As though 'twere a coffin my book I'll adorn
And in it my songs to their rest shall be borne.

Could I coffin my love too, deep in the tomb!
On love's grave the fair flower of peace may bloom;
On such grave it blooms, there 'tis culled — but for me
It never will bloom till in earth I be.

And here are the songs which were reckless erst
As the lava streams that from Etna burst;
They broke from my spirit's depths profound

Nay, Romney, nay—I will not hear you say
Those words again: “I love you, love you, sweet!”
You are profane—blasphemous. I repeat,
You are no actor for so grand a play.

You love with all your heart? Well, that may be;
Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I try
To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry—
I who have had a full bowl proffered me—

A new bowl brimming with a draught divine,
One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips?
Think you I even care to bathe my lips

Love, when we met, 'twas like two planets meeting.
Strange chaos followed; body, soul, and heart
Seemed shaken, thrilled, and startled by that greeting
Old ties, old dreams, old aims, all torn apart
And wrenched away, left nothing there the while
But the great shining glory of your smile.

I knew no past; 'twas all a blurred, bleak waste;
I asked no future; 'twas a blinding glare.
I only saw the present: as men taste
Some stimulating wine, and lose all care,
I tasted Love's elixir, and I seemed

She stood with the tall, painted turrets above her,
While I lingered and worshipped the boards where she trod —
From the rose in her hair to her instep I love her,
But what does she care for the love of a " god " ?
Ah, belle of the stage! if the gods should forsake you
Your bright star would fall like a stone from the sky;
You know 'tis the cheers of their godships that make you
And yet you begrudge them a blink from your eye.

While we sit in the darkness, and pay you our duty,
You give not e'en that which our worship demands;

Long as of youth the joyous hours remain,
Me may Castalia's sweet recess detain,
Fast by the umbrageous vale lulled to repose,
Where Aganippe warbles as it flows;
Or roused by sprightly sounds from out the trance,
I'd in the ring knit hands and join the Muses' dance.
Give me to send the laughing bowl around
My soul in Bacchus' pleasing fetters bound;
Let on this head unfading flowers reside,
There blooms the vernal rose's earliest pride;
And when, our flames commissioned to destroy,

Kiss me, Cloris, let me taste to the full your delicate beauty and your many graces, and in this pleasant mead let wandering senses feed at will upon your charms.
Let my mind, languid and trembling, be satiate in your soft nectarous breasts, and with our deeds let us scorn those that would restrain amorous lovers.
I would not make the art of love philosophy, because the little Love-god is not wont to plunge deep in learned books.
Let sight give way to touch, the eye to the lip; let seeing and gazing go aside, since the blind god does not gaze but touches.

Had he not hands of rare device, whoe'er
First painted Love in figure of a boy?
He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were,
Who blessings lose whilst lightest cares employ.

Nor added he those airy wings in vain,
And bade through human hearts the godhead fly;
For we are tost upon a wavering main;
Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky.

Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts,
The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast;
Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts;

Fumia, the shepherdess, weaving her garlands, went singing through the flowering meadows; about her and about her in the grass went playfully the Cyprian, her son and the childish Loves. She, turning to the sun, spoke thus:
" Divine, immortal ray, your sacred glow lightens and gilds this happy season, and the fair month of May through you brings back her lovely Flora from heaven to earth; ah! all that here is sad you change to happiness and joy. "

1

Who brought thee last night lovely to my side?
Who drew thy warm veil cunningly aside?
Who snatched thee back again so soon, so soon?
Who set this hell-fire burning in my side?

2

Life is so short, yet sleeps thy lovely head;
Why make so soon a death-bed of thy bed?
O love, awake! thy beauty wastes away—
Thou shalt sleep on and on when thou art dead.