love poetry

Love , I demand to have my lady in fee.
Fine balm let Arno be;
The walls of Florence all of silver rear'd,
And crystal pavements in the public way.
With castles make me fear'd,
Till every Latin soul have owned my sway.
Be the world peaceful; safe throughout each path;
No neighbour to breed wrath;
The air, summer and winter, temperate.

A thousand dames and damsels richly clad
Upon my choice to wait,
Singing by day and night to make me glad.

Let me have fruitful gardens of great girth,

‘A featherd fowl 's in your orchard, father,
O dear, but it sings sweet!
What would I give, my father dear,
That bonnie bird to meet!’
What would I give, etc.

‘O hold your tongue, my daughter Mary,
Let a' your folly be;
There 's six Scots lords tomorrow, child,
That will a' dine wi me,
And ye maun serve them a', Mary,
As 't were for meat and fee.’

She served them up, sae has she down,
The footmen a' the same,
But her mind was aye on Love Robbie,
Stood out below the rain.

Farewell, Love, and all thy laws for ever:
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more;
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore,
To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavour.
In blind error when I did persever,

Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh ay so sore,
Hath taught me to set in trifles no store,
And scape forth, since liberty is lever.
Therefore, farewell: go trouble younger hearts,
And in me claim no more authority;
With idle youth go use thy property,
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts;

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest;
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed;
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.

A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,
Mother of sighs and murtherer of repose,
A sea of sorrows from whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lends to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.

The family is a little book,
The children are the leaves,
The parents are the cover that
Safe protection gives.

At first, the pages of the book
Are blank, and smooth, and fair;
But time soon writeth memories,
And painteth pictures there.

Love is the golden clasp
That bindeth up the trust;
O break it not, lest all the leaves
Shall scatter like the dust.

Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.
This last will justifie my soft complaint,
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
And without Blushes I the Youth persue,
When so much beauteous Woman is in view,
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain
With thy deluding Form thou giv'st us pain,
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain.
In pity to our Sex sure thou wer't sent,

Fair as the night — when all the astral fires
Of heaven are burning in the clear expanse,
My love is; and her eyes like star-depths glance
Lustrous with glowing thoughts and pure desires,
And that mysterious pathos which inspires
All moods divine in mortal passion's trance —
All that its earthly music doth enhance
As with the rapture of seraphic lyres!
I gaze upon her till the atmosphere
Sweetens intensely, and to my charmed sight
All fair associated forms appear
Swimming in joy, as swim yon orbs in light —

The faint-flushed buds awake within the cup
Of myriad folded roses yet to be;
Ere Life can drink its utmost sweetness up,
Love flutters, wakens, O how sweet to see!

 The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

 Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

 Now they are flying in place, conveying

A LADY in whom love is manifest —
That love which perfect honour doth adorn —
Hath ta'en the living heart out of thy breast,
Which in her keeping to new life is born:
For there by such sweet power it is possest
As even is felt of Indian unicorn:
And all its virtue now, with fierce unrest,
Unto thy soul makes difficult return.
For this thy lady is virtue's minister
In suchwise that no fault there is to show,
Save that God made her mortal on this ground.
And even herein His wisdom shall be found: