love poetry

Thirsis a youth of the inspired train,
Faire Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phoebus sung, the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne, she as lovely and as coy;
With numbers, he the flying Nymph pursues,
With numbers, such as Phoebus selfe might use;
Such is the chase, when love and fancy leads
O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads,
Invok'd to testifie the lovers care,
Or forme some image of his cruell Faire:
Urg'd with his fury like a wounded Deer
O'er these he fled, and now approaching neer,

If the nose of the pig in the market of Firenze
has lost its matte patina, and shines, brassy,
even in the half light; if the mosaic saint
on the tiles of the Basilica floor is half gone,
worn by the gravity of solid soles, the passing
of piety; if the arms of Venus have reentered
the rubble, taken by time, her perennial lover,
mutilating even the memory of beauty;
and if
the mother, hiding with her child from
the death squads of brutality,

Praise to the Holiest in the height,
And in the depth be praise,
In all His words most wonderful;
Most sure in all His ways!

O loving wisdom of our God!
When all was sin and shame,
A second Adam to the fight
And to the rescue came.

O wisest love! that flesh and blood,
Which did in Adam fail,
Should strive afresh against the foe,
Should strive and should prevail;

And that a higher gift than grace
Should flesh and blood refine,
God's presence and His very Self,
And Essence all-divine.

XII

Was I never yet of your love grieved
Nor never shall while that my life doth last.
But of hating myself that date is past,
And tears continual sore have me wearied.
I will not yet in my grave be buried
Nor on my tomb your name yfixed fast
As cruel cause that did the spirit soon haste
From th'unhappy bones by great sighs stirred.
Then if an heart of amorous faith and will
May content you without doing grief,
Please it you so to this to do relief.
If otherwise ye seek for to fulfil

Kind fostering mother, let thy favouring care
Turn from the youthful band the yielding fair;
With love of aged swains their breasts inspire;
Weak though their limbs, yet strong is their desire.

CLIII

From thought to thought, from hill to hill love doth me lead.
Clean contrary from restful life these common paths I tread.

OW ORLD ! somewhat I have to say to thee.
O sin-sick, heart-sick, soul-sick, love-sick World!
So ailing art thou, both in part and particle,
That solid truth thy stomach ill digests.
Yet, since thou art my mother, I will love thee,
And heedless of thy frowns, “will speak right on.”

That which belongs to all men is least prized;
The thing most common is least understood.
That which is deep and silent is divine;
And there is nought on earth so craved, so common,
So misunderstood, or so divine, as Love.

I send home your glove, my darling!
Darling! love and true!
Yester-eve left where you sat by me;
And my heart goes with it to you.

Goes with it all love and devotion,
To win sweet looks from your eyes,
Like the flower which, thirsting in Summer,
For the sweet rain at noon-day sighs.

I send it, yet fain would keep it,
For the little hand that, in mine,
Yester-eve so lovingly nestled,
When your kisses were sweeter than wine.

Come back soon!—I pine, my darling!
For the clasp of your hand again;

One forgets not the first dead he sorrowed over;
One forgets not the first kiss of the first lover.
Not the dust of ages could remembrance cover
How in Titian's golden kingdom first I strayed.

Oh, that Roman morning's azure, softly sifting
Through the gray, the while the rapt eye caught the rifting
Of the sun's rich fire where molten mists were drifting,
As one looks upon an opal gently swayed.

Ah! but in the palace there was sun more golden!
Art for once to Nature was no more beholden.

When I am old,
And sadly steal apart,
Into the dark and cold,
Friend of my heart!
Remember, if you can,
Not him who lingers, but that other man,
Who loved and sang, and had a beating heart,—
When I am old!

When I am old,
And all Love's ancient fire
Be tremulous and cold:
My soul's desire!
Remember, if you may,
Nothing of you and me but yesterday,
When heart on heart we bid the years conspire
To make us old.

When I am old,
And every star above
Be pitiless and cold: