love poetry

This is my prayer to thee, my lord — strike,
strike at the root of penury in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.

By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me free.
Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone.
But day passes by after day and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers,
if I keep not thee in my heart,
thy love for me still waits

PART I.

T O THE Goddess Lada prayed
 Gisli, holding high his spear
Bound with buds of spring, and laughed
 All his heart to Lada's ear.

Damp his yellow beard with mead;
 Loud the harps clanged thro' the day;
With bruised breasts triumphant rode
 Gisli's galleys in the bay.

Bards sang in the banquet hall,
 Set in loud verse Gisli's fame;
On their lips the war gods laid
 Fire to chant their warrior's name.

To the Love Queen Gisli prayed,

When lordly Saturn in a sable robe
Sat full of frowns and mourning in the west,
The evening star scarce peeped from out her lodge,
And Phoebus newly galloped to his rest;
Even then
Did I
Within my boat sit in the silent streams,
All void of cares as he that lies and dreams.

As Phao so a ferryman I was;
The country lasses said I was too fair;
With easy toil I laboured at mine oar,
To pass from side to side who did repair;
And then
Did I
For pains take pence, and Charon-like transport

Live here, great Heart; and love and dy and kill;
And bleed and wound; and yeild and conquer still.
Let this immortall life where'er it comes
Walk in a crowd of loves and MARTYRDOMES.
Let mystick DEATHS wait on't; and wise soules be
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! shew here thy art,
Upon this carcase of a hard, cold, heart;
Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy large Books of day,
Combin'd against this BREAST at once break in

Fair is my Love that feeds among the lilies,
The lilies growing in that pleasant garden
Where Cupid's Mount that well belovid hill is,
And where that little god himself is warden.

See where my Love sits in the beds of spices,
Beset all round with camphor, myrrh, and roses,
And interlaced with curious devices
Which her apart from all the world incloses!
There doth she tune her lute for her delight,
And with sweet music makes the ground to move,
Whilst I, poor I, do sit in heavy plight,
Wailing alone my unrespected love;

If love be like the flower that in the night,
When darkness drowns the glory of the skies,
Smells sweet, and glitters in the gazer's sight,
But when the gladsome sun begins to rise,
And he that views it, would the same embrace,
It withereth, and loseth all his grace:

Why do I love and like the cursed tree,
Whose buds appear, but fruit will not be seen:
Why do I languish for the flower I see,
Whose root is rot, when all the leaves be green?
In such a case it is a point of skill

My love, like the vast majority,
knows nothing about poetry
With my poor poems she does
simply incredible things:
she irons them, darns them, fries them,
she even beats them out with a broom
My love, like the vast majority,
lives touching poetry.

They sin who tell us Love can die.
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell;
Earthly these passions of the Earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But Love is indestructible.
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at time opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,

The Fool of nature, stood with stupid eyes
And gaping Mouth, that testify'd Surprize,
Fix'd on her Face, nor cou'd remove his Sight,
New as he was to Love, and Novice in Delight:
Long mute he stood, and leaning on his Staff,
His Wonder witness'd with an Ideot laugh;
Then would have spoke, but by his glimmering Sense
First found his want of Words, and fear'd Offence:
Doubted for what he was he should be known,
By his Clown-Accent and his Country-Tone.
Through the rude Chaos thus the running Light