romantic poems

A mayde Cristes me bit yorne
that Ich hire wurche a luve-ron,
For hwan heo myhte best ileorne
To taken onoþer soþ lefmon,
that treowest were of alle berne
And best wyte cuþe a freo wymmon.
Ich hire nule nowiht werne;
Ich hire wule teche as Ic con.

Mayde, her þu myht biholde
this worldes luve nys bute o res
And is byset so fele volde,
Vikel and frakel and wok and les.
theos þeines þat her weren bolde
Beoþ aglyden so wyndes bles;
Under molde hi liggeþ colde
And faleweþ so doþ medewe gres.

Still hovering round the fair at fifty four,
Unfit to Love, unable to give o'er,
A flesh fly that still flutters on the Wing
Awake to Buz, but not alive to Sting,
Brisk where he cannot, backward where he can,
The teazing Ghost of the departed Man.

1

If e're passion in hopes of refining Delight
Shall engage me beyond the Amour of a Night
To seek dearer Arms, and a faithfuller kiss,
May it [be] for such Charms, such a Mistriss as this.
May her Face and her Mind to alure me conspire
And what one begun may the other raise higher,
Relenting her Nature and moving her Air
With Eyes of Desire to keep Hearts from Despair.

2

May She neither be easy, nor yet too severe,
But with Handsome Resistance her Yeilding endear,

O mother Earth, by the bright sky above thee,
I love thee, O, I love thee!
And yet they say that I must leave thee soon;
 And if it must be so,
Then to what sun or moon
 Or star I am to go,
 Or planet, matters not for me to know.
O mother Earth, by the bright sky above thee,
I love thee, O I love thee!

O, whither will you send me?
O, wherefore will you rend me
 From your warm bosom, mother mine?—
I can't fix my affections
On a state of conic sections,
And I don't care how old Daedalus

An empty laugh, I heard it on the road
Shivering the twilight with its lance of mirth;
And yet why empty? Knowing not its birth,
This much I know, that it goes up to God;
And if to God, from God it surely starts,
Who has within Himself the secret springs
Of all the lovely, causeless, unclaimed things,
And loves them in His very heart of hearts.
A girl of fifteen summers, pure and free,
Æolian, vocal to the lightest touch
Of fancy's winnowed breath — Ah, happy such
Whose life is music of the eternal sea!

If the year be at her Spring
I neither know nor care;
I have the bird-song of your speech,
The warm rain of your hair.
I question not if thrushes sing,
If roses load the air;
Beyond my heart I need not reach
When all is summer there.

I go not by the blue above,
By grasses green or sere;
Your silences, your sigh, your smile,
They mark my time o' year.
Its own brave wonder-world has love;
So fair it is, I fear
Sometimes 't will fade and go the while
I look upon you, dear.

Color in the lilacs,
And singing in the air;
Sweet is for the having,
Plenty and to spare.

Fuzzy are the bushes,
The fields are all a-smile;
Phyllis has a feeling
Life is well worth while;

Dian tests her dimples,
Griselda fetches sighs;
Amaryllis loosens
The lightnings in her eyes;

Roxy knots her ribbons,
Belinda binds her zone; —
Pluck your heart up, Colin!
Philander, hold your own!

Tell it up and down,
Love 's in town!

Love, indeed thy strength is mighty
Thus, alone, such strife to bear —
Three 'gainst one, and never ceasing —
Death, and Madness, and Despair!
'Tis not my own strength has saved me;
Health, and hope, and fortitude,
But for love, had long since failed me;
Heart and soul had sunk subdued.
Often, in my wild impatience,
I have lost my trust in Heaven,
And my soul has tossed and struggled,
Like a vessel tempest-driven;
But the voice of my beloved
In my ear has seemed to say —

Since you bequeath your living face
And leave your throat for me to lean my eyes against,
As though the one I loved the uttermost had died
And willed me all her golden benefits,
Am I not happy then? ...

O largesse of the dead!
O vaulted throat!

Love embalms the moments,
Art stabs the years.
Love is the careful undertaker.
Art is the beloved assassin. . . .
Let me wear a black glove then —
With a knife in it!