love poetry

O wha wou'd wish the win' to blaw
Or the green leaves fa' therewith;
Or wha wad wish a leeler love
Than Brown Adam the Smith?

His hammer 's o' the beaten gold,
His study 's o' the steel,
His fingers white are my delite,
He blows his bellows we[e]l.

But they ha' banish'd him Brown Adam
Frae father and frae mither,
An' they ha' banish'd him Brown Adam
Frae sister and frae brither;

And they ha' banish'd [him] Brown Adam
Frae the flow'r o' a' his kin;

My love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For winter, spring, and summer.

No beauty she doth miss,
When all her robes are on;
But Beauty's self she is,
When all her robes are gone.

Madame, ye been alle beautee shrine
As fer as cercled is the mapemounde:
For as the crystal glorious ye shine,
And like ruby been youre cheekes rounde.
Therwith ye been so merye and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce
It is an oinement unto my wounde,
Though ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

For though I weepe of teres ful a tine,
Yit may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Youre semy vois, that ye so smale outtwine,
Maketh my thought in joye and blis habounde:
So curteisly I go with love bounde

Mark how the bashful morn in vain
Courts the amorous marigold
With sighing blasts and weeping rain,
Yet she refuses to unfold.
But when the planet of the day
Approacheth with his powerful ray,
Then she spreads, then she receives
His warmer beams into her virgin leaves.
So shalt thou thrive in love, fond boy;
If thy tears and sighs discover
Thy grief, thou never shalt enjoy
The just reward of a bold lover;

But when with moving accents thou
Shalt constant faith and service vow,

Many things thou hast given me, dear heart;
But one thing thou hast taken: that high dream
Of heaven as of a country that should seem
Beyond all glory that divinest art
Has pictured:—with this I have had to part
Since knowing thee;—how long, love, will the gleam
Of each day's sunlight on my pathway stream,
Richer than what seemed richest at the start?
Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat
Make not each happier than the last for me;
Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, complete
In joy, not the surprise I dreamed 't would be,

Love me or not, love her I must or dye;
Leave me or not, follow her needs must I.
O, that her grace would my wisht comforts give:
How rich in her, how happy should I live!

All my desire, all my delight should be
Her to enjoy, her to unite to mee:
Envy should cease, her would I love alone:
Who loves by lookes, is seldome true to one.

Could I enchant, and that it lawfull were,
Her would I charme softly that none should heare.
But love enforc'd rarely yeelds firme content;
So would I love that neyther should repent.

Look not to me for wisdom,
There's naught you shall be told;
I make the moon my loving cup
And toast the spilling gold.

Look not to me for wisdom—
The cup is warm above,
And I shall drink of kisses,
So look to me for love.

When love speaks well of wisdom,
Watch out, and guard your heart,
Oh, do not give it wholly,
Or happiness depart.

For love with me is courage,
A vagabond, a road,
Two roving underneath the moon,
And on their hearts no load.

For love with me is madness—

Encinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress,
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
The moon was bright, the air was free,

And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.

It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more beloved than day.
But who that beauteous Boy beguiled,
That beauteous Boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,

If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or grey grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.

If only I could pretend to be a bow woven with rattan
and hang on to the shoulders of a Bando lord!
Pretending I'm a bow I've fallen in love with a Bando lord!
Why doesn't my body go to him, as I wish?
Sheer beauty—that's what my Bando lord is!