romantic poems

" Much, much in love, you see her by chance,
then go to bed; that night,
what kind of dream will you have? "
" Thrusting, thrusting, then
holding her tight — that's what I'll dream! "

Let's make love. The night has turned
to daybreak. Bells are ringing.
We've made love since evening
but I'm not tired.
What shall I do?

A pomegranate opened its mouth, mad love

A LONE upon the housetops to the North
I turn and watch the lightnings in the sky —
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.

Below my feet the still bazar is laid —
Far, far below the weary camels lie —
The camels and the captives of thy raid.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

My father's wife is old and harsh with years,
And drudge of all my father's house am I —
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

XVIII SEATHWAITE CHAPEL

Sacred Religion! " mother of form and fear,"
Dread arbitress of mutable respect,
New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked,
Or cease to please the fickle worshipper;
Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here)
Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect
Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect,
Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere
That seeks to stifle it; — as in those days
When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew,
Whose good works formed an endless retinue:

I travelled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field

thisbe: Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove?
O Pyramus, arise!
Speak, speak! Quite dumb?
Dead, dead? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These lily lips,
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheeks,
Are gone, are gone.
Lovers, make moan!
His eyes were green as leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word!
Come, trusty sword;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue!

You read it in these spell-bound eyes,
And there alone should love be read;
You hear me say it all in sighs,
And thus alone should love be said.

Then dread no more; I will not speak;
Although my heart to anguish thrill,
I'll spare the burning of your cheek,
And look it all in silence still.

Heard you the wish I dared to name,
To murmur on that luckless night.
When passion broke the bonds of shame,

The worlds light shines; shine as it will,
The world will love its Darknesse still:
I doubt though when the World's in Hell,
It will not love its Darknesse halfe so well.

Now what is love I pray thee tell:
It is the fountain and the well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell,
It is perhaps the sansing bell
That rings all in to heaven and hell:
And this is love, and this is love, as I hear tell.

Now what is love I pray you show:
A thing that creeps and cannot go:
A prize that passeth to and fro,
A thing for me, a thing for moe,
And he that proves shall find it so,
And this is love, and this is love, sweet friends, I trow.