love poetry

I WAS again beside my Love in dream:
Earth was so beautiful, the moon was shining;
The muffled voice of many a cataract stream
Came like a love-song, as, with arms entwining,
Our hearts were mixed in unison supreme.

The wind lay spell-bound in each pillared pine,
The tasselled larches had no sound or motion,
As my whole life was sinking into thine—
Sinking into a deep, unfathomed ocean
Of infinite love—uncircumscribed, divine.

Night held her breath, it seemed, with all her stars:

Thou walkest with me as the spirit-light
Of the hushed moon, high o'er a snowy hill,
Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,
When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.
Moon of my soul, O phantasm of delight,
Thou walkest with me still.

The vestal flame of quenchless memory burns
In my soul's sanctuary. Yea, still for thee
My bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearns
Each separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea:
My Moon of love, to whom for ever turns
The life that aches through me.

Dost thou remember ever, for my sake,
When we two rowed upon the rock-bound lake?
How the wind-fretted waters blew their spray
About our brows like blossom-falls of May
One memorable day?

Dost thou remember the glad mouth that cried—
“Were it not sweet to die now side by side,
To lie together tangled in the deep
Close as the heart-beat to the heart—so keep
The everlasting sleep?”

Dost thou remember? Ah, such death as this
Had set the seal upon my heart's young bliss!
But, wrenched asunder, severed and apart,

Thou walkest with me as the spirit-light
 Of the hushed moon, high o'er a snowy hill,
Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,
 When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.
Moon of my soul, O phantasm of delight,
 Thou walkest with me still.

The vestal flame of quenchless memory burns
 In my soul's sanctuary. Yea, still for thee
My bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearns
 Each separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea:
My Moon of love, to whom for ever turns
 The life that aches through me.

Breath you now, while Io Hymen
To the Bride we sing:
O how many joyes, and honors,
From this match will spring!
Ever firme the league will prove,
Where only goodnesse causeth love.
Some for profit seeke
What their fancies most disleeke:
These love for vertues sake alone:
Beautie and youth unite them both in one.

CHORUS.

Live with thy Bridegroome happy, sacred Bride;
How blest is he that is for love envi'd.

The Maskers second dance .

A Song .
1
Advance your Chorall motions now,
You musick-loving lights;
This night concludes the nuptiall vow,
Make this the best of nights:
So bravely Crowne it with your beames,
That it may live in fame,
As long as Rhenus or the Thames
Are knowne by either name.
2

Once move againe, yet nearer move
Your formes at willing view;
Such faire effects of joy and love

PROLOGUE

When first our poet set himself to write,
Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night
He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lie in quiet for him:
But now his honeymoon is gone and past,
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you;
To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss
Like the faint smackings of an after-kiss.
But you, like wives ill-pleas'd, supply his want:

Celimena, of my heart
None shall e'er bereave you,
If with your good leave I may
Quarrel with you once a day,
I will never leave you.

c:Passion's but an empty name
Where respect is wanting:
Damon, you mistake your aim;
Hang your heart, and burn your flame,
If you must be ranting.

d:Love as dull and muddy is
As decaying liquor:
Anger sets it on the lees,
And refines it by degrees,
Till it works it quicker.

c:Love by quarrels to beget
Wisely you endeavor,

What can I do, I love you so much!
As you leave, I cling to you.
I am to you as the forest bird to its mate:
getting to perch together with you,
but not to fly with you.

By nature I love to dress my hair,
combing it carefully, arranging it neatly about my face.
As I hold the mirror in my hand,
a thousand times I gaze at my own image!
But, alas! my hand grows weary of this,
and so I must try to find:
a mirror-stand

Yesterday, as I went down to the bridge at the river,
I was stared at by all the passers-by.
The flowers were sparse—I had no place to hide,
and so they all could see my newly made-up face!
Every moment was filled with embarrassment,
and so I must try to find: