love poetry

'Tis past! the pangs of love are past,
I love, I love no more;
Yet who would think I am at last
More wretched than before?

How bless'd, when first my heart was freed
From love's tormenting care,
If cold indifference did succeed,
Instead of fierce despair?

But ah! how ill is he releas'd,
Though love a tyrant reigns,
When the successor in his breast
Redoubles all his pains:

In vain attempts the woeful wight,
That would despair remove,
Its little finger has more weight,

The colour tones that Rousseau loved so well,
Like blast and blare of music's bursting swell,
Are flushed of dying Autumn's wizard light
When troubled day sinks into sombre night,
And trace the tragic splendour of a quest
That organ peals of stately strain suggest.
His masterpieces pierce to Nature's mood
When sullen, elemental forces brood
Pregnant of passion, charged of wrathful force—
The solemn pause ere storm clouds take their course.

Dear little Friends, ah! would I had
A score of nice cig-boxes,
Wherewith to serve your tender loves—
You pretty hens and cockses!

But here alas! all I can find;
I pray you, don't reject 'em:
Perchance anon they'll serve a turn
Your fledglings to protect 'em.

So prosper, Sweets, your springtide loves
Secure from all life's dangers:
The Gods ordain you and your chicks
To every ill be strangers!

1. It was down in a lone green valley Where the roses
bloom and fade, There lies a jealous lover In
love with a beautiful maid. One night the moon shone
brightly, The stars were shining too, And to the
maiden's cottage This jealous lover drew.

2 “Come, love, and we will wander
Down where those woods are gay.
While wandering we will ponder
And plan our wedding day.”
So arm in arm they wandered,
The night birds sang above.
This jealous lover grew angry
With the beautiful girl he loved.

Though others think I stare with eyes unseeing,
I've loved you, Mistress mine, so dear to me,
With all my fervent rag-and-sawdust being
Since first you took me from the Christmas Tree.
I love you though my only frock you tear off;
I love you though you smear my face at meals;
I love you though you've washed my painted hair off;
I love you when you drag me by the heels;
I love you though you've sewed three buttons on me,
But most I love you when you sit upon me.

No jealous pang shall mar my pure affection;

Some act of Love's bound to rehearse,
I thought to bind him, in my verse:
Which when he felt, Away (quoth he)
Can poets hope to fetter me?
It is enough, they once did get
Mars, and my mother, in their net:
I wear not these my wings in vain.
With which he fled me: and again,
Into my rhymes could ne'er be got
By any art. Then wonder not,
That since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow old.

How happy the lover,
—How easy his chain,
—How pleasing his pain!
How sweet to discover
—He sighs not in vain!
For love, every creature
Is formed by his nature;
—No joys are above
—The pleasures of love.

In vain are our graces,
—In vain are your eyes,
—If love you despise;
When age furrows faces,
—'Tis time to be wise.
Then use the short blessing
That flies in possessing:
—No joys are above
—The pleasures of love.

How happy the lover,
—How easy his chain,

See yonder leafless trees against the sky,
How they diffuse themselves into the air,
And ever subdividing separate,
Limbs into branches, branches into twigs,
As if they loved the element, & hasted
To dissipate their being into it.

I never knew a night so black
Light failed to follow on its track.
I never knew a storm so gray
It failed to have its clearing day.
I never knew such bleak despair
That there was not a rift, somewhere.
I never knew an hour so drear
Love could not fill it full of cheer!

I never knew a night so black
Light failed to follow on its track.
I never knew a storm so gray
It failed to have its clearing day.
I never knew such bleak despair
That there was not a rift, somewhere.
I never knew an hour so drear

Walking in a valley green,
Pied with Flora, summer queen,
Where she heaping all her graces,
Niggard seemed in other places,
Spring it was and here did spring
All that nature forth can bring.
Groves of pleasant trees there grow,
Which fruit and shadow could bestow.
Thick-leaved boughs small birds cover,
Till sweet notes themselves discover;
Tunes for number seemed confounded,
Whilst their mixtures music sounded,
'Greeing well, yet not agreed,
That one the other should exceed.
A sweet stream here silent glides,