love poem

CLXXXIII

Pain of all pain, the most grievous pain
Is to love heartily and cannot be loved again.

Love with unkindness is causer of heaviness,
Of inward sorrow and sighs painful.
Whereas I love is no redress
To no manner of pastime: the sprites so dull
With privy mournings and looks rueful,
The body all wearish, the colour pale and wan,
More like a ghost than like a living man

When Cupido hath inflamed the heart's desires
To love there as is disdain;
Of good or ill the mind oblivious,

Love is the master of the ring
And life a circus tent.
What is this silly song you sing?
Love is the master of the ring.

I am afraid!
Afraid of Love
And of Love's bitter whip!
Afraid,
Afraid of Love
And Love's sharp, stinging whip.

What is this silly song you sing?
Love is the master of the ring.

The Mina stream comes tumbling down
From Mount Tsukuba's height;
Strong as my love, it leaps into
A pool as black as night
With overwhelming might.

Nobler than solemn organ tone
Or earth's sublimest art,
Deeper than ocean's mystic moan,
Love sings his ancient song alone,
The music of the heart.

All down the immemorial sweep
Of life's immortal way,
O'er sunny height or deathly deep,
Where Love and Light their strong course keep,
'Tis everlasting day.

Oh, Love is strong to breast the wave
On seas of circumstance,
And Love is bold and Love is brave,
Though weeping by a lonely grave
Upon the shores of Chance!

O vision of the cloudless eye,

Sometimes, across these later years
One memory chaste and holy
Drifts back and makes me love my past
For that sweet reason solely;
Not any tide of time or chance
Bears out of sight the old romance.

No love on earth can satisfy
The dream of child or poet;
I who was happy, guessed it not—
I who am sadder, know it,
Yet—O dear days! O sweet belief!
O so well worth all later grief!

And all fair things, too pure for earth,
And therefore briefly given,—
Lent to us for a passing hour

When swing the morning-glory bells,
By marble pillar wreathing;
When o'er the perfumed violet dells
The morning zephyr's breathing,
That time I wander down a way
That myrtle sweet encloses,
And all about I pry and peep
For Love amongst the Roses.

A rosy brake I see ahead,
In golden vapour flushing;
My steps are winged, and on I speed,
The fragrant fortress crushing.
The dewy petals flutter fast—
The gap to me discloses,
Asleep upon the damask blooms,
Sweet Love amongst the Roses.

Turn from that mirage of a God on high
Holding the sceptre of a creed outworn,
And hearken to the faint half-human cry
Of Nature quickening with the God unborn!

The God unborn, the God that is to be,
The God that has not been since Time began,—
Hark,—that low sound of Nature's agony
Echoed thro' life and the hard heart of Man!

Fed with the blood and tears of living things,
Nourish'd and strengthen'd by Creation's woes,
The God unborn, that shall be King of Kings,
Sown in the darkness, thro' the darkness grows.

O Love, my love, and perfect bliss!
God in his goodness grant me this—
I see thee soon again.
Nought else I need to take away
The grief that for thy sake alway
Doth keep me in great pain.

Alas, I know not what to do,
Nor how to get good news and true:
Dear God, I pray to Thee;
If else Thou canst not comfort me,
Of Thy great mercy make that he
Send speedy news to me.

Within my father's garden alls
There is a tree—when April falls
It blossometh alway.
There wend I oft in winter drear,

My love for him shall be
Fair love and true:
For he loves me, I know,
And I love him, pardie!

And for I know that he
Doth love me so,
I should be all untrue
To love but him, pardie!

Beneath the branch of the green may
My merry heart sleeps happily,
Waiting for him who promised me
To meet me here again this day.

And what is that I would not do
To please my love so dear to me?
He loves me with leal heart and true,
And I love him no less, pardie.

Perchance I see him but a day;
Yet maketh he my heart so free—
His beauty so rejoiceth me—
That month thereafter I am gay.