love poems

II Shepherdess .

Tell me Thirsis, tell your anguish,
Why you sigh, and why you languish;
When the nymph whom you adore
Grants the blessing of possessing,
What can love and I do more?
What can love, what can love and I do more? Shepherd .

Think it's love beyond all measure
Makes me faint away with pleasure;
Strength of cordial may destroy,
And the blessing of possessing
Kills me with excess of joy. Shepherdess .

Thirsis, how can I believe you?
But confess, and I'll forgive you.

Facing you, on the wall, across from your bed:
mountains like skinny bones,
rising loftily above table and desk.
Half the wall covered with craggy peaks and valleys;
seriously ill, you still loved the mountains

The brocade and rush hat you loved —
it dropped, it dropped
into the Kamo River, into midstream!
I've been looking for it, asking for it,
and now the day has come, the day has come
after a rustling, clear autumn night!

The potter at Mimaki in Kusuha —
he makes pots, but his daughter's good-looking.
Ah, she's so beautiful!
If I could put her on a love cart
in a procession of three carts, four carts,
and have her called " the governor's lady " !

" Much, much in love, you see her by chance,
then go to bed; that night,
what kind of dream will you have? "
" Thrusting, thrusting, then
holding her tight — that's what I'll dream! "

Let's make love. The night has turned
to daybreak. Bells are ringing.
We've made love since evening
but I'm not tired.
What shall I do?

A pomegranate opened its mouth, mad love

A LONE upon the housetops to the North
I turn and watch the lightnings in the sky —
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.

Below my feet the still bazar is laid —
Far, far below the weary camels lie —
The camels and the captives of thy raid.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

My father's wife is old and harsh with years,
And drudge of all my father's house am I —
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

XVIII SEATHWAITE CHAPEL

Sacred Religion! " mother of form and fear,"
Dread arbitress of mutable respect,
New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked,
Or cease to please the fickle worshipper;
Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here)
Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect
Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect,
Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere
That seeks to stifle it; — as in those days
When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew,
Whose good works formed an endless retinue:

I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field