love poetry

Liebste, sollst mir heute sagen:

Come, and you shall tell me, dearest,
 Are you not a thing of dreams,
Such as, when the Summer's clearest,
 From the poet's fancy streams?

Ah, but no—a mien so mild, dear,
 Such a mouth and eyes that wait;
Such a loving, lovely child, dear,
 Not a poet could create.

Basilisks whose glances freeze or
 Hippogriffs and dragons dire;
Horrid, fabled things like these are
 Fashioned in the poet's fire.

But yourself and your pretenses,

Es stehen unbeweglich

Immovable for ages
The stars are set above;
They look upon each other
With all the pain of Love.

And oh, they speak a language,
So wondrous, each to each,
That not the wisest scholar
Can understand their speech.

But I have learned it, and never
Can I hear it again unmoved;
For lo, I used as a grammar
The face of my beloved!

Ich wollte, meine Lieder

I wish that all my love-songs
Were flowers bright and rare;
I'd send them to my dearest
And she might find them fair.

I wish that all my love-songs
Were kisses that could speak;
I'd send them to my dearest
To hang about her cheek.

I wish that these, my love-songs,
Were peas, so firm and fat;
I'd make a nice, rich pea-soup —

Love grasps my heart in a net
Like the strong roots of a flower;
So surely his root is set
In my spirit, to hold me with power
Yet to-night, O forgive me, Dear!
I am troubled, my heart trembles.
There flutters within me a fear
That Love in vain dissembles.

O is it that even our trust,
So strongly planted,
How steadfast soever, must
By its own fear be haunted?
As the heart must beat in the breast
If the pulse to its life be true,
Love must tremble and throb in his nest

There is clay, lime, silicon, salt
for the rationalist
and something
with a strange atomic weight.

Let Prospero whose I
is on a dandelion seed
give it a name
to disappear into
as softly
as a spider hurls a thread
and make it impervious
to theory
for although he is fanciful,
he loves
salt and iron,
and absolutes make him belch.

o for a world with a string and a kitten
and Tipsy who loves us so much
he pees
and you and I.

Think of reason,
Love 's a poison
Tender hearts should fear to touch. Mist .

From this poison
There 's no reason,
I conceive, to fear so much. P HIL .

Dreadful poison!
Beauteous reason! Mist .

Horrid reason!
Charming poison! P HIL .

Farewell, poison;
'Tis to reason
I direct my placid view: Mist .

Nonsense, reason!
'Tis the poison,
Sir, I must expect of you.

Iris , amidst the fern,
Beside a tender lover,
Said, looking very stern,
And colouring all over,
" Where's that respect, Sir, pray? that niceness, Sir,
Which marks a lover's proper character?"


" Why," replied he, " 'twixt you and me.
Moments there are, my dove,
When lovers think, that it might be
As well to be in love."

A SWEET " No, no," — with a sweet smile beneath,
Becomes an honest girl: I'd have you learn it: —
As for plain " Yes," it may be said, i'faith,
Too plainly and too oft: — pray, well discern it.

Not that I'd have my pleasure incomplete,
Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you;
But that in suffering me to take it, sweet,
I'd have you say, " No, no, I will not let you."

CHAIR

What is the reason, Sir, that every day
You load me thus for nothing, hours and hours?
Is this the manner, pray,
Of making love in that cold clime of yours?
You may be heavy for a century,
And get no further with the lovely she.

GENTLEMAN

And hast thou too conspired against me, chair?
I love, 'tis true — too true — and dare not say it: