romantic poems

The Son of God in mighty love,
Came down to Bethlehem for me;
Forsook his throne of light above,
An infant upon earth to be.

In love, the Father's sinless child
Sojourned at Nazareth for me;
With sinners dwelt the undefiled,
The Holy One in Galilee.

Jesus, whom angel-hosts adore,
Became a man of griefs for me;
In love, though rich, becoming poor,
That I though him enriched might be.

Though Lord of all, above, below,
He went to Olivet for me;
There drank my cup of wrath and woe,

I fade, I faint, I famish, love!
I thirst, I starve—
Gewhillikins!
And all for my sweet saucy dear—
Her beef, her kisses, pies, & beer
My Stellakins!

What is poetry?
A thought of beauty—truth,
An emotion rife with ruth—
With love!
All rhythmically expressed,
Carefully groomed—exquisitely dressed.

fortune hathe taken away my love
my lyves joy and my soules heaven above
fortune hathe taken thee away my princes
my worldes joy and my true fantasies misteris

fortune hathe taken thee away from mee
fortune hathe taken all by takinge thee
deade to all joyes I only lyve to woe
So ys fortune becomme my fantasies foe

In vayne my Eyes, in vayne yee waste your teares
In vayne my sightes, the smoke of my dispayres
In vayne youe searche the Earthe and heaven above
In vayne youe searche for fortune keepes my love

LXI

Of purpose Love chose first for to be blind,
For he with sight of that that I behold
Vanquished had been against all godly kind.
His bow your hand and truss should have unfold
And he with me to serve had been assigned.
But for he blind and reckless would him hold
And still by chance his deadly strokes bestow,
With such as see I serve and suffer woe.

O SWEET is Love, and sweet is Lack!
But is there any charm
When Lack from round the neck of Love
Drops her languid arm?

Weary, I no longer love,
Weary, no more lack;
O for a pang, that listless Loss
Might wake, and, with a playmate's voice,
Call the tired Love back!

A placed alone is but an idle worde.
E parce E, spells nothinge but it selfe;
I yet alone male lovely thoughtes afoorde:
but O, alas, dothe plaie the frowarde elfe:
to prove the Reason of this Riddle true:
not A nor E nor O, but I and yow.

And this, then, is love's ending. It is like
The history of some fair southern clime:
Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth,
And the warmed soil puts forth its thousand flowers,
Its fruits of gold—summer's regality;
And sleep and odours float upon the air,
Making it heavy with its own delight.
At length the subterranean element
Bursts from its secret solitude, and lays
All waste before it. The red lava stream
Sweeps like a pestilence; and that which was
A garden for some fairy tale's young queen

What hath Love with Thought to do?
Still at variance are the two.
Love is sudden, Love is rash,
Love is like the levin flash,
Comes as swift, as swiftly goes,
And his mark as surely knows.

Thought is lumpish, Thought is slow,
Weighing long 'tween yes and no;
When dear Love is dead and gone,
Thought comes creeping in anon,
And, in his deserted nest,
Sits to hold the crowner's quest.

Since we love, what need to think?
Happiness stands on a brink
Whence too easy 't is to fall
Whither 's no return at all;

Name the thing knowledge—name it liberty—
To me this laughter and light sundering seems
Dark with the dismal anarchy of dreams
Where everything is false and therefore free:
The ringing bird-bolt shot with certainty
Shrieks past exultant as a sea-bird screams;
The thistledown, on every air that streams,
Floats ever in a sad frivolity.

You too that toy with treacheries, you too,
You (if the perfect one should come in power),
Having the terrible human heart within,
The trumpet of the valorous voice in you,