love poetry

Good creatures, do you love your lives
And have you ears for sense?
Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.

I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth's foundations will depart
And all you folk will die.

Not light of love, lady!
Though fancy do prick thee,
Let constancy possess thy heart.
Well worthy of blaming
They be, and defaming,
From plighted troth which back do start.
Dear dame,
Then fickleness banish
And folly extinguish,
Be skilful in guiding
And stay thee from sliding.

The constant are praised,
Their fame high is raised,
Their worthiness doth pierce the sky.
The fickle are blamed,
Their lightilove shamed,
Their foolishness doth make them die.
As well

Up, sun and mery wether!
Sumer draweth nere.

Somtime I loved—so do I yit—
In stedfast wise and not to flit;
But in dangèr my love was knit,
A pitous thing to here.

For when I offred my servìse,
I to obey in humble wise
As ferforth as I coude devise,
In contenaunce and chere,

Grete paine for nought I dide endure,
Al for that wicked creätùre;
He and no mo, I you ensure,
Overthrew al my matère.

But now—I thanke God of His sand—
I am ascaped from his band

The streams of lovely Nancy
Divide in three parts,
Where young men and maidens
Do a-choose their sweethearts;
For a-drinking sweet liquors
Makes their hearts for to sing,
And the noise in the valley
Makes the rocks for to ring.

On yonder high mountain
A castle does stand;
It's a-builded of ivory
On yonder black strand,
It's a-builded of ivory
And diamonds so bright,
It's a pilot for sailors
On a dark wintry night.

On yonder high mountain
Where wild fowls they fly,

1. Oh answer me a question, love, I pray. . . . My heart for thee is pining day by
day; . . . Oh answer me, my dearest, answer true; . . . .
Hold me close as you were wont to do. . . . . Whisper once again the
story old, The dearest, sweetest story ever told; Whisper once again the story
old, . . . The dearest, sweetest story ever told. . . .
2. Oh tell me that your heart to me is true. . . . Repeat to me the story ever
new; . . . Oh take my hand in yours and tell me, dear, . . . .
Is it joy to thee when I am near? . . . . Whisper o'er and o'er the

Is it hard fare, or is it love
That makes the cat's goodwife so lean?

Rest, little Guest,
Beneath my breast.
Feed, sweet Seed,
At your need.
I took Love for my lord
And this is my reward,
My body is good earth,
That you, dear Plant, have birth.

Such stolid faces! Do folks sit and stare
Thus always, heavy-eyed?
These women have known love!
Have passed beyond the portals of love's house
And dwelt within, where many things are known,
Yet sit here prim and dull, with no least gleam
Of all the mysteries that love has taught
To give a little radiance to their eyes!

If I had passed that strange, sweet gate, and known
Love's intimate nights and days,
And all the sacred beauties of his house,
Would not my eyes be full of secret lights,

All things are best when first begun,
A love that 's guessed, a race unrun,
And those bright notes that in the brain
Fall brief, beginnings of the rain,
Just two or one
That splash, and to the dust belong,
And might have been a rush of song.

In a deep mountain lake there sailed a swan,
Far, far away from any human soul;
And daily swam with her a speckled trout,
Who only left her when deep thunder rolled—
Sinking far down where that swan could not dive,
So that she tasted bitterest pangs of love
And drooped upon the water like to die.
And when that trout came near with the blue sky
She brightened over the water like a sail
Set for the harbour after a winter gale.
No solitary ship sailing a land-locked sea
With her own shadow, and no lonely cloud