love poetry

He who wants to leave
Let him leave
He who wants to sleep
Let him sleep
And with the time saved
Be silent.

Of flowers as well
Of heaven as well
Of a grave as well

Don't rush
Be silent.

In your flesh
The callused wings
The river that doesn't flow
The idle, idle clouds,
The stars that never wake

Don't dream easily
Don't flow easily
Don't bloom easily

However
Seen with narrowed eyes:

He who wants to leave
His lonely leaving form,

The soul shall be drowned in the flood
Of mounting blood.
Be strong at least
To resist Love,
Except at his feast.

Love, with what strange tyrannick lawes must they
Comply, which are subjected to thy sway!
How far all justice thy commands decline,
Which though they hope forbid, yet love enjoyne!
Must all are to thy hell condemn'd sustain
A double torture of despaire and pain?
Is't not enough vainly to hope and wooe,
That thou shouldst thus deny that vain hope too?
It were some Joy Ixion-like to fold
The empty aire, or feed on hopes as cold;
But if thou to my passion this deny,
Thou may'st be starv'd to death as well as I.

Kiss me then, my merry May,
By the soul of love I pray!
Prithee, nay! Tell, tell me why?
If with you I sport and play,
My mother will be vexed to-day.
Tell me why, oh tell me why.

Unloved I love, unwept I weep,
Grief I restrain, hope I repress;
Vain is this anguish, fixed and deep,
Vainer desires or means of bliss.

My life is cold, love's fire being dead;
That fire self-kindled, self-consumed;
What living warmth erewhile it shed,
Now to how drear extinction doomed!

Devoid of charm how could I dream
My unasked love would e'er return?
What fate, what influence lit the flame
I still feel inly, deeply burn?

Alas! there are those who should not love;
I to this dreary band belong;

Each fickle art you try in vain
A constant breast to move;
For she who would be lov'd again,
Herself must learn to love.

While that the sun with his beams hot
Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,
Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
In shadow of a green oak-tree
Upon his pipe this song play'd he:

Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
Burning in flames beyond all measure:

The larks had nestlings; dreaming of no hurt,
Joyous they thrilled their love-song overhead:
Back to his watch,—savage, erect, alert,—
The brigand Hawk returned with talons red.

I have grete marvel of a brid
That with my love is went away;
She bildes her in another stid:
Therfore I morn both night and day.
I couth never serve that brid to pay,
Ne frendship with her can I none find,
But fast fro me she flys away—
Alas that ever she was unkind!

Alas! why is she with me wroth,
And to that brid I trespast nought?
Ye, if she be never so loth,
She shall nought come out of my thought.
Now of me she gives right nought,
But bildes her fer under a lind,

A THOUSAND fops may flatter to deceive,
Yet doubt their transports, nor their vows believe;
But if a feeling heart with love should burn,
Approve the passion, and the love return;
For few the joys this checquer'd life bestows,
Its pleasures fleeting! permanent its woes!
Yet love can gild, with brightest rays the scene,
And hope can make the barren desart green;
For sure if bliss to human kind is known,
'Tis when two breasts a mutual passion own;
When hopes and fears to one dear object tend,
And the sweet mistress is the truest friend!