romantic poems

Of a true love clean and derne
I have now written thee a Ron,
How thou might, if thou wilt, learn
For to love thy Leman
That truest is of alle bearn;
And more of love there knoweth none:
Beware, for He is somewhat stern,
His eye is ever thee upon.

Thou art wrought of such a kind,
Withouten love thou may not be;
And nevermore shalt thou find
One so sweet and fair as He.
If thou wilt Him to thee bind
With true love-bondes three,
With all thine heart and will and mind, —

Along the edge of the great, moving sea —
That moaned forever on her barren bars,
The old, sad love came back again to me,
Moving quietly under the quiet stars.

O sad love, do not smile upon me so,
Nodding so gently with your little head —
All the old wonder of your eyes is dead,
And the sea-winds have chilled you long ago!

Sing, O sing again, lovely lark of mine,
Sitting there alone amidst the green of May!

In the prison-tower the lad sits mournfully;
To his father writes, to his mother writes:
Thus he wrote, and these, these were the very words:
“O good father mine, thou belovèd sir!
O good mother mine, thou belovèd dame!
Ransom me, I pray, ransom the good lad,—
He is your beloved, is your only son!”
Father, mother,—both,—both refused to hear,
Cursed their hapless race, cursed their hapless seed:

Nightingale, O nightingale,
Nightingale so full of song!
Tell me, tell me, where thou fliest,
Where to sing now in the night?
Will another maiden hear thee,
Like to me, poor me, all night
Sleepless, restless, comfortless,
Ever full of tears her eyes?
Fly, O fly, dear nightingale,
Over hundred countries fly,
Over the blue sea so far!
Spy the distant countries through,
Town and village, hill and dell,
Whether thou find'st anyone,
Who so sad is as I am?

Oh, I bore a necklace once,

Carnations and my first love! And he was seventeen,
And I was only twelve years — a stately gulf between!
I broke them on the morning the school-dance was to be,
To pin among my ribbons in hopes that he might see. ...
And all the girls stood breathless to watch as he came through
With curly crest and grand air that swept the heart from you!
And why he paused at my side is more than I can know —
Shyest of the small girls who all adored him so —
I said it with my prayer-times: I walked with head held high:

Dear Love, it was so hard to say
Good-bye to-day!
You turned to go, yet going turned to stay!
Till suddenly at last you went away.

Then all at last I found my love unsaid,
And bowed my head;
And went in tears up to my lonely bed —
Oh, would it be like this if you were dead?

Before the dawn the very thought of you,
That wakes me, as the morning wakes the night,
Floods all my heart with most exultant joy.

The thought of you that rises with the stars,
When evening wheels all glittering through the dark,
Floods all my heart with most exultant joy.

O life and joy and breath and death of me,
With every breath I draw you in like air!
O I shall die of you, of you, of you!

Though now you banish me forevermore,
Never to look upon your face again—
Think you that I shall sorrow for my love?

Good-bye! — no, do not grieve that it is over,
The perfect hour;
That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover,
Flits from the flower.

Grieve not — it is the law. Love will be flying —
Yes, love and all.
Glad was the living — blessed be the dying.
Let the leaves fall.

I was enriched, not casting after marvels,
But as one walking in a usual place,
Without desert but common eyes and ears,
No recourse to hear, power but to see,
Got to love you of grace.

Subtle musicians, that could body wind,
Or contrive strings to anguish, in conceit
Random and artless strung a branch with bells,
Fixed in one silver whim, which at a touch
Shook and were sweet.

And you, you lovely and unpurchased note,
One run distraught, and vexing hot and cold
To give to the heart's poor confusion tongue,

Love scared thee not, for early thy heart ripened;
His was thy trust, and now thou mourn'st alone.
O hapless, hopeless prey of lies and passion,
Burst thou their net, and fear not any blame!

The blame of men, their feigned reprobation,
Heed not, nor weep, but clear thy clouded eyes.
Not I thy judge, thy headsman, though I know it
That with a laugh malice thy doom has signed.

Has not each one of us been passion's plaything?
Will nought but death assuage thine enemies' scorn?