love poetry

All other love is like the moone
That wexth and waneth as flowr in plain,
As flowr that faireth and falweth soone,
As day that clereth and endth in rain.

All other love biginth by blisse,
In wop and wo makth his ending;
No love ther n'is that evre habbe lisse
But what areste in Hevene-King,
Whos love is fresh and evre greene
And evre full without wanying;
His love sweeteth withoute teene,
His love is endless and a-ring.

All other love I flee for thee;
Tell me, tell me where thou list.

All loved and lovely women dear to rhyme:
Thais, Cassandra, Helen and their fames,
Burn like tall candles through forgotten time,
Lighting the Past's dim arras with their names.
Around their faces wars the eager dark
Wherein all other lights are sunken now,
Yet, casting back, the seeker still may mark
A flame of hair, a bright immortal brow.

Surely, where they have passed, one after one,
Wearing their radiance to the darkened room, —
Surely, newcomers to Oblivion
May still descry in that all-quenching gloom,

Alberta, lovely little dame,
Of thee I'm thinking ever;
Oh, little witch, with eyes of sloe!
Thou haunts me, wheresoe'er I go,
And grants a respite, never;
A victim of thy spell I be,
A bondman, robbed of liberty:
Show quarter now, and pity me,
O, fair Alberta.

Thy solemn eyes, are hid from sight
By dark-fringed, dusky, curtains;
Oh, lift thy orbs, up unto mine,
And let one ray of love light shine,
To make my faint hopes certain;
Oh, from suspense, and misery,

Alas, my heart! mine eye hath wrongid thee,
Presumptuous eye, to gaze on Phyllis' face,
Whose heavenly eye no mortal man may see
But he must die, or purchase Phyllis' grace.
Poor Corydon! the nymph, whose eye doth move thee,
Doth love to draw, but is not drawn to love thee.

Her beauty, Nature's pride and shepherds' praise;
Her eye, the heavenly planet of my life;
Her matchless wit and grace her fame displays,
As if that Jove had made her for his wife:
Only her eyes shoot fiery darts to kill,

Alas! alas! thou turn'st in vain
Thy beauteous face away,
Which, like young sorcerers, rais'd a pain
Above its power to lay.

Love moves not as thou turn'st thy look,
But here doth firmly rest:
He long ago thine eyes forsook
To revel in my breast.

Thy power on him why hop'st thou more
Than his on me should be?
The claim thou lay'st to him is poor
To that he owns from me.

His substance in my heart excels,
His shadow, in thy sight;
Fire where it burns more truly dwells

Ah! lovely appearance of death!
No sight upon earth is so fair;
Not all the gay pageants that breathe
Can with a dead body compare.

With solemn delight I survey
The corpse when the spirit is fled;
In love with the beautiful clay,
And longing to lie in its stead.

How blest is our brother, bereft
Of all that could burthen his mind!
How easy the soul, that hath left
This wearisome body behind!

This languishing head is at rest,
Its thinking and aching are o'er;
This quiet immovable breast

Ah! Love, my Master, hear me swear
By all the locks of Timo's hair,
By Demo, and that fragrant spell
Wherewith her body doth enchant
Such dreams as drowsy lovers haunt,
By Ilias' mirth delectable.
And by the lamp that sheds his light
On love and lovers all the night,
By those, ah Love, I swear that thou
Hast left me but one breath, and now
Upon my lips it fluttereth,
Yet this I'll yield, my latest breath,
Even this, oh Love, for thee to Death!

An age in her embraces pass'd
Would seem a winter's day,
Where life and light with envious haste
Are torn and snatch'd away.

But oh, how slowly minutes roll
When absent from her eyes,
That feed my love, which is my soul:
It languishes and dies.

For then no more a soul, but shade,
It mournfully does move
And haunts my breast, by absence made
The living tomb of love.

You wiser men, despise me not
Whose lovesick fancy raves
On shades of souls, and heaven knows what

When I was twenty inches long,
I could not hear the thrushes' song;
The radiance of morning skies
Was most displeasing to my eyes.

For loving looks, caressing words,
I cared no more than sun or birds;
But I could bite my mother's breast,
And that made up for all the rest.

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold, let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how ill becometh him to slide