love poetry

Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May?
Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts, decay;
Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false--cards packed for storm's play!
II

Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed--
Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed--
Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,--bloom frost bequeathed?
III

Parted, I came away and years have passed;
each year my love increases
because of you

On the sand of a sandhill I lie on my belly
and think this day
of the pain of first love as something remote

Sadly stars fall; two in love have lain side by side for the first time tonight

How lovely! getting drunk faster than I do, you've fallen asleep, your arm for a pillow

Ah, our kiss — may the sea remain as it is, the sun stay, and birds, dancing, die and cease now!

How should I your true love know
From another one? IV, v
"By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon.'

He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.

1

How should I your true love know
 From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
 And his sandal shoon.

He is dead and gone, lady,
 He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
 At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
 Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go
 With true-love showers.

2

And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?

Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble court of kings.

Then come--thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia tree,

The golden tresses of a ladie faire
At first beginning were of this my love:
But now at last unto my dubble care,
To be the end of my sad life I prove.
Then did my doubtfull spirit live in hope,
But now he feares, despairing as it were,
Because he doth perceive in sudden broke
His hope, which dying hart did helpe and beare:
Since that the Haire, that Alpha me did binde
In love, of life Omega I doo finde.