love poetry

Nor for less love, all glorious France, to thee,
" Sweet enemy " called in days long since at end,
Now found and hailed of England sweeter friend,
Bright sister of our freedom now, being free;
Not for less love or faith in friendship we
Whose love burnt ever toward thee reprehend
The vile vain greed whose pursy dreams portend
Between our shores suppression of the sea.
Not by dull toil of blind mechanic art
Shall these be linked for no man's force to part
Nor length of years and changes to divide,

I

Gone, O gentle heart and true,
Friend of hopes foregone,
Hopes and hopeful days with you
Gone?

Days of old that shone
Saw what none shall see anew,
When we gazed thereon.

Soul as clear as sunlit dew,
Why so soon pass on,
Forth from all we loved and knew
Gone?

There is no woman living that draws breath
So sad as I, though all things sadden her.
There is not one upon life's weariest way
Who is weary as I am weary of all but death.
Toward whom I look as looks the sunflower
All day with all his whole soul toward the sun;
While in the sun's sight I make moan all day,
And all night on my sleepless maiden bed
Weep and call out on death, O Love, and thee,
That thou or he would take me to the dead,
And know not what thing evil I have done
That life should lay such heavy hand on me.

Gods, get me out of it!
Spirits of Laughter
Come to my aid now
And exorcise it!
O you, Priapus,
Stand till you're skyward,
Stand till you're all staff
And cannot rise it!
Let your preposterous
Pole fall upon her:
" That for her honour! "
Let not a thought now
Of comfort escape us:
Think what in boisterous,
Blowing Jack Falstaff,
Shakespeare made Love look.
Think how that cheerful
Chiel Hippocleides
Would this my fearful
Passion disparage;
Dancing incessantly,

Once did I loue and yet I liue,
Though loue & truth be now forgotten.
Then did I ioy nowe doe I grieue,
That holy vows must needs be broken.

Hers be the blame that caus'd it so,
Mine be the griefe though it be little,
Shee shall haue shame I cause to know:
What tis to loue a dame so fickle.

Loue her that list I am content,
For that Camelion like shee changeth,
Yeelding such mistes as may preuent:
My sight to view her when she rangeth.

Let him not vaunt that gaines my losse,

An Answere to the first Staffe, that Loue is unlike in Beggers and in Kings.

Compare the Bramble with the Cedar tree,
The Pismyres anger with the Lyons rage:
What is the Buzzing flie where Eagles bee?
A drop the sparke, no seas can Aetna swage.
Small is the heat in Beggers brests that springs,
But flaming fire consumes the hearts of Kings.

Who shrouds himself where slender hairs cast shade:
But mighty Oakes may scorne the Summer Sun:
Smal cure wil serue, wher Bees the woud haue made

The wind stood up and gave a shout;
He whistled on his fingers, and
Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand,
And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,
And so he will, and so he will.

I made my love a little secret house,
Of emerald moss and silver birchen boughs,
Wherein to while away the sunny hours;
And in the roof I set a bubble, bright
With rainbow colours of the moon, and light,
Soft, golden radiance of the dew-drenched flowers.

I made my thoughts her silent servitors,
Clad them in soft, sad, silvery gossamers,
Weft in the twilight by a dryad sighing
For a forsaken love. I draped the walls
With blue-grey curtains of the night that falls,
Star-sprinkled, when the autumn-time is dying.

Thy love has melted my body and it has become water. Any antimony that might have remained became the antimony of the bubble's eyes.
The bud may open by the morning breeze which blows in the garden, but the key to the lock of my heart is the smile of my beloved.

Alam speaks:

The bright eyes of a beautiful woman, awake all night long, are full of love.
It seems, as one looks at her, that youth is flowing from her.
Those eyes are moving to and fro, intoxicated with love.
They are cast down, being heavy with sleep, and sometimes they are wide open.
O Alam, some new beauty is seen in these eyes.
They appear like a bee hovering over a lotus flower.

Shekh Rangrezin replies:

Those eyes that are like a bee want to fly away, when they behold the face of the moon.