romantic poems

Celimena, of my heart
None shall e'er bereave you,
If with your good leave I may
Quarrel with you once a day,
I will never leave you.

c:Passion's but an empty name
Where respect is wanting:
Damon, you mistake your aim;
Hang your heart, and burn your flame,
If you must be ranting.

d:Love as dull and muddy is
As decaying liquor:
Anger sets it on the lees,
And refines it by degrees,
Till it works it quicker.

c:Love by quarrels to beget
Wisely you endeavor,

What can I do, I love you so much!
As you leave, I cling to you.
I am to you as the forest bird to its mate:
getting to perch together with you,
but not to fly with you.

By nature I love to dress my hair,
combing it carefully, arranging it neatly about my face.
As I hold the mirror in my hand,
a thousand times I gaze at my own image!
But, alas! my hand grows weary of this,
and so I must try to find:
a mirror-stand

Yesterday, as I went down to the bridge at the river,
I was stared at by all the passers-by.
The flowers were sparse—I had no place to hide,
and so they all could see my newly made-up face!
Every moment was filled with embarrassment,
and so I must try to find:

Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May?
Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts, decay;
Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false--cards packed for storm's play!
II

Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed--
Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed--
Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,--bloom frost bequeathed?
III

Parted, I came away and years have passed;
each year my love increases
because of you

On the sand of a sandhill I lie on my belly
and think this day
of the pain of first love as something remote

Sadly stars fall; two in love have lain side by side for the first time tonight

How lovely! getting drunk faster than I do, you've fallen asleep, your arm for a pillow

Ah, our kiss — may the sea remain as it is, the sun stay, and birds, dancing, die and cease now!

How should I your true love know
From another one? IV, v
"By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon.'

He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.