love poetry

Toss not my soul, O Love, 'twixt hope and fear.
Show me some ground where I may firmly stand
Or surely fall; I care not which appear,
So one will close me in a certain band.

Take me, Assurance, to thy blissful hold,
Or thou, Despair, unto thy darkest cell.
Each hath full rest, the one in joys enrolled,
Th'other, in that he fears no more, is well.

Ye captive souls of blindfold Cyprian's boat,
Mark with advice in what estate ye stand:
Your boatman never whistles merry note,
And Folly keeping stern, still puts from land,
And makes a sport to toss you to and fro
Twixt sighing winds and surging waves of woe.

On Beauty's rock she runs you at her will,
And holds you in suspense twixt hope and fear,
Where dying oft, yet are you living still,
But such a life as death much better were.
Be therefore circumspect, and follow me,

Thou art too hard for me in Love:
There is no dealing with thee in that Art:
That is thy Masterpiece I see.
When I contrive and plot to prove
Something that may be conquest on my part
Thou still, O Lord, outstrippest me.

Sometimes, when as I wash, I say
And shrewdly, as I think, Lord wash my soul
More spotted than my flesh can be.
But then there comes into my way
Thy ancient baptism, which when I was foul
And knew it not, yet cleansed me.

I took a time when thou didst sleep,

Senful man, bethink and see
What peine I thole for love of thee.
Night and day to thee I grede,
Hand and fotes on rode isprede.
Nailed I was to the tree,
Ded and biried, man, for thee;
All this I drey for love of man.
But werse me dot, that he ne can
To me turnen onis his eye
Than all the peine that I drye.

Women, women, love of women
Maketh bare purses with sum men.

Sum be mery, and sum be sad,
And sum be besy, and sum be bad;
Sum be wilde, by Seint Chad;
Yet all be not so,
For sum be lewed,
And sum be shrewed;
Go, shrew, whersoever ye go.

Sum be wise, and sum be fonde;
Sum be tame, I understond;
Sum will take bred at a mannes hond;
Yet all be not so.

Sum be wroth and cannot tell wherfore;
Sum be skorning evermore,
And sum be tusked like a bore;
Yet all be not so.

When the nightegale singes,
The wodes waxen grene:
Lef and gras and blosme springes,
In Averil, I wene.
And love is to mine herte gon
With one spere so kene:
Night and day my blod it drinkes;
Mine herte deth me tene.

Ich have loved all this yer
That I may love na more;
Ich have siked mony sik,
Lemmon, for thine ore.
Me nis love never the ner,
And that me reweth sore.
Swete lemmon, thench on me:
Ich have loved thee yore.

Swete lemmon, I preye thee
Of love one speche.

Have good day, now, Mergerete,
With grete love I thee grete!
I wolde we mighten us ofte mete
In halle, in chaumbre, and in the strete,
Withoute blame of the contree —
God geve that so mighte it be!

My love is falle upon a may:
For love of hire I defende this day.
Love aunterus no man forsaket:
It woundet sore whan it him taket.
Love anterus may haven no reste:
Whare thought is newe, ther love is faste.
Love anterus with wo is bought:
Ther love is trewe, it flitteth nought.

Love is a flame that burns with sacred fire,
And fills the being up with sweet desire;
Yet, once the altar feels love's fiery breath,
The heart must be a crucible till death.

Say love is life; and say it not amiss,
That love is but a synonym for bliss.
Say what you will of love — in what refrain,
But knows the heart, 'tis but a word for pain.

'Twas on a glorious summer eve, —
A lovely eve in June, —
Serenely from her home above
Looked down the gentle moon;
And lovingly she smiled on me,
And softly soothed the pain —
The aching, heavy pain that lay
Upon my heart and brain.

And gently 'mid the murmuring leaves,
Scarce by its light wings stirred,
Like spirit voices soft and clear,
The night wind's song was heard;
In strains of music sweet and low
It sang to me of peace;
It bade my weary, troubled soul
Her sad complainings cease.