love poetry

O flame of living love,
That dost eternally
Pierce through my soul with so consuming heat,
Since there's no help above,
Make thou an end of me,
And break the bond of this encounter sweet.

O burn that burns to heal!
O more than pleasant wound!
And O soft hand, O touch most delicate,
That dost new life reveal,
That dost in grace abound,
And, slaying, dost from death to life translate!

O lamps of fire that shined
With so intense a light,
That those deep caverns where the senses live,

From a long way, and Pilgrimage for Love,
I am return'd weary'd with Travels paine,
Not finding ease, or those vexations moove;
First, to my soule they are, where to remaine
They vow to setle; then alas, can I
Thinke of a rest, but travell till I die.

The first was Fancy , like a lovely boy,
Of rare aspect, and beautie without peare;
Matchable either to that ympe of Troy ,
Whom Joue did love, and chose his cup to beare,
Or that same daintie lad, which waas so deare
To Great Alcides , that when as he dyde,
He wailed womanlike with many a teare,
And every wood, and every valley wyde
He fild with Hylas name, the Nymphes eke Hylas cryde.

Ere yet the dawn
Pushed rosy fingers up the arch of day
And smiled its promise to the voiceless prime,
Love sat and patterns wove at life's great loom.

He flung the suns into the soundless arch,
Appointed them their courses in the deep,
To keep His great time-harmonies, and blaze
As beacons in the ebon fields of night.
Love balanced them and held them firm and true,
Poised 'twixt attractive and repulsive drift
Amid the throngs of heaven. What though this power
Was ever known to us as gravity,

Come lusty gamesters of the sea
Billowes, waves, and winds,
Like to most lovers make your plea
Say love all combinds;
Lett nott Dian rule your sprites,
Her pale face shuns all delights,

Venus was borne, of the sea foame
Queene of love is she
Like her sweet pleasant phantisies roame,
This Varietie;
Juno yett a firme wife is,
Soe may I bee in my blis,

Pallas is yett a fierce, sterne lass,
Wisdome doth profess,
Ceares a hous-wife I soone pass,
Lovers I express;
Venus, my deere sea borne Queene,

?By vew of her he ginneth to revive
His ancient love, and dearest Cyparisse ,
And calles to mind his pourtraiture alive,
How faire he was, and yet not faire to this,
And how he slew with glauncing dart amisse
A gentle Hynd, the which the lovely boy
Did love as life, above all worldly blisse;
For griefe whereof the lad n'ould after joy.
But pynd away in anguish and selfe-wild annoy.

Blame not my cheeks, though pale with love they be;
The kindly heat unto my heart is flown,
To cherish it that is dismaid by thee,
Who art so cruel and unsteadfast grown:
For nature, called for by distressèd hearts,
Neglects and quite forsakes the outward parts.

But they whose cheeks with careless blood are stained,
Nurse not one spark of love within their hearts,
And, when they woo, they speak with passion feigned,
For their fat love lies in their outward parts:
But in their breasts, where love his court should hold,

Let us clear a little space,
And make Love a burial place.

He is dead, dear, as you see,
And he wearies you and me,

Growing heavier, day by day,
Let us bury him, I say.

Wings of dead white butterflies,
These shall shroud him, as he lies

In his casket rich and rare,
Made of finest maiden-hair.

With the pollen of the rose
Let us his white eye-lids close.

Put the rose thorn in his hand,
Shorn of leaves—you understand.

Let some holy water fall
On his dead face, tears of gall—

Lo Christ returns! But where is love,
The love he showed for men;
Does he behold it, here on earth,
Returned to earth again?

Lo Christ returns! But where the faith,
Which here on earth he sought;
The faith which overcomes the world,
And mighty works has wrought?

And where is hope, which cheers the soul,
The Spirit's fruit and joy;
Which doth like faith, and hope abide,
And naught can ere destroy?

Ah, where are these? we see them not;
But, Lord, we still believe;