Love Poetry - compiled by S. Bhar
"Libido" by Rupert Brooke
How should I know? The enormous wheels of will Drove me cold-eyed on tired and sleepless feet.Night was void arms and you a phantom still And day your far light swaying down the street.As never fool for love, I starved for you; My throat was dry and my eyes hot to see.Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view, And your remembered smell most agony.Love wakens love! I felt your hot wrist shiver And suddenly the mad victory I planned Flashed real, in your burning bending head. . .My conqueror's blood was cool as a deep river In shadow; and my heart beneath your hand Quieter than a dead man on a bed.
"Lovers' Infiniteness" by John Donne
If yet I have not all the love,Dear, I shall never have it all,I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move,Nor can entreat one other tear to fall.All my treasure, which should purchase thee,Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters I have spent,Yet no more can be due to me,Than at the bargain made was meant.If then thy gift of love were partial,That some to me, some should to others fall, Dear, I shall never have thee all.
Or if then thou gavest me all,All was but all, which thou hadst then;But if in thy heart, since, there be or shallNew love created be, by other men,Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears,In sighs, in oaths, and letters outbid me,This new love may beget new fears,For, this love was not vowed by thee.And yet it was, thy gift being general,The ground, thy heart is mine; whatever shall Grow there, dear, I should have it all.
Yet I would not have all yet,He that hath all can have no more,And since my love doth every day admitNew growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store;Thou canst not every day give me thy heart,If thou canst give it, then thou never gav'st it;Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart,It stays at home, and thou with losing sav'st it:But we will have a way more liberal,Than changing hearts, to join them, so we shall Be one, and another's all.
"A Love Song" by William Carlos Williams
What have I to say to youWhen we shall meet?Yet—I lie here thinking of you.
The stain of loveIs upon the world.Yellow, yellow, yellow,It eats into the leaves,Smears with saffronThe horned branches that leanHeavilyAgainst a smooth purple sky.
There is no light—Only a honey-thick stainThat drips from leaf to leafAnd limb to limbSpoiling the coloursOf the whole world.
I am alone.The weight of loveHas buoyed me upTill my headKnocks against the sky.
See me!My hair is dripping with nectar—Starlings carry itOn their black wings.See, at lastMy arms and my handsAre lying idle.
How can I tellIf I shall ever love you againAs I do now?
(First version 1915) - from "Poems 1916"
"I like my body when it is with your" by e.e. cummings
i like my body when it is with yourbody. It is so quite a new thing.Muscles better and nerves more.i like your body. i like what it does,i like its hows. i like to feel the spineof your body and its bones,and the trembling-firm-smooth ness and which i willagain and again and againkiss, i like kissing this and that of you,i like,slowly stroking the, shocking fuzzof your electric fur,and what-is-it comesover parting flesh....And eyes big love crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrillof under me you so quite new(1925)
"Love" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.Oft in my waking dreams do ILive o’er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin’d tower.The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene,Had blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!She lean’d against the armèd man,The statue of the armèd Knight;She stood and listen’d to my lay, Amid the lingering light.Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best whene’er I sing The songs that make her grieve.I play’d a soft and doleful air;I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.She listen’d with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he woo’d The Lady of the Land.I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another’s love, Interpreted my own.She listen’d with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he cross’d the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade—There came and look’d him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!And that, unknowing what he did,He leap’d amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;—And how she wept and clasp’d his knees;And how she tended him in vain—And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;—And that she nursed him in a cave;And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay;—His dying words—but when I reach’dThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb’d her soul with pity!All impulses of soul and senseHad thrill’d my guileless Genevieve;The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,An undistinguishable throng,And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish’d long!She wept with pity and delight,She blush’d with love and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.Her bosom heaved—she stepp’d aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.She half enclosed me with her arms,She press’d me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, look’d up, And gazed upon my face.’Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly ’twas a bashful art,That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.I calm’d her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.
"A white Rose" by John Boyle O'Reilly
The red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose breathes of love;O, the red rose is a falcon,And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebudWith a flush on its petal tips;For the love that is purest and sweetestHas a kiss of desire on the lips.
"Perfect Woman" by William Wordsworth
SHE was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleam’d upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment’s ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.I saw her upon nearer view,A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature’s daily food;For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.
"Love is enough" by William Morris
LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning,And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
"She walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron
SHE walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow’d to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair’d the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o’er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
"Blow Northern Wind" Anonymous (c. 1300)
I know a maiden in bower bright,Who full fair is to sight,Glorious maiden of mightFair and free.In all this noble multitude,A woman of blood and birth.I knew not everA more lovely one on earth.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
With locks lovely and long,With body and face fair to hold,With many mirths might she mingleThat maiden so glorious in her bowerWith glorious eyes great and good,With blissful brows under her hood.He who was stayed on the crossHis lovely life she honours.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
Her face beams lightAs a lantern at night,Her hue shines so brightSo fair is she and fine.A darling neck she has to holdWith arms, shoulders, as one would desireAnd fingers fair to fold -God, would she were mine.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
She is coral of goodness,She is ruby of rightfulness,She is crystal of cleanness,And banner of beauty.She is lily of largess,She is periwinkle of prowess,She is sunflower of sweetness,And lady of loyalty.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
For her love I cry and moan,For her love I droop and am dismayed,For her love my bliss is nought,And I grow wan.For her love my sleep I break,For her love all night I wake,For her love mourning I make,More than any man.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
Translated for Bibliomania by Kate McClune.
"Monna Innominata" Sonnets i-iii by Christina Rossetti
(i)
'Lo dì che han detto a' dolci amici addio.' — Dante 'Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci!' — Petrarca
Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:— Or come not yet, for it is over then, And long it is before you come again,So far between my pleasures are and few.While, when you come not, what I do I do Thinking 'Now when he comes,' my sweetest 'when?:' For one man is my world of all the menThis wide world holds; O love, my world is you.Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang Because the pang of parting comes so soon; My hope hangs waning, waxing like a moon Between the heavenly days on which we meet:Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang When life was sweet because you called them sweet?
(ii)
'Era già l'oa che volge il desio.' — Dante 'Ricorro al tempo ch'io vi vidi prima.' — Petrarca
I wish I could remember, that first day, First hour, first moment of your meeting me, If bright or dim the season, it might beSummer or Winter for aught that I can say;So unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was I to see and to foresee, So dull to mark the budding of my treeThat would not blossom yet for many a May.If only I could recollect it, such A day of days! I let it come and go As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;It seemed to me so little, meant so much;If only now I could recall that touch, First touch of hand in hand—Did one but know!
(iii)
'O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto!' — Dante 'Immaginata guida la conduce.' — Petrarca
I dream of you to wake: would that I might Dream of you and not wake but slumber on; Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone,As Summer ended Summer birds take flight.In happy dreams I hold you full in sight, I blush again who waking look so wan; Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone,In happy dreams your smile makes day of night.Thus only in a dream we are at one, The faith that maketh rich who take or give; If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake, To die were surely sweeter than to live,Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.
"Amoretti" Sonnets LXXV-LXXVII by Edmund Spenser
Sonnet LXXVOne day I wrote her name upon the strand;But came the waves, and washed it away.Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand;But came the tyde, and made my paynes his prey.Vayne man! sayd she, that doest in vaine assayA mortall thing so to immortalize;For I my selfe shall lyke to this decay,And eek my name bee wyped out lykewize.Not so (quod I); let baser things devizeTo dy in dust, but you shall live in fame:My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,And in the hevens wryte your glorious name; Where, when as death shall all the world subdew, Our love shall live, and later life renew.Sonnet LXXVIFayre bosome! fraught with vertues richest tresure,The neast of love, the lodging of delight,The bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasureThe sacred harbour of that hevenly spright;How I was ravisht with your lovely sight,And my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray!Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight,On the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray;And twixt her paps, like early fruit in May,Whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace,They loosely did theyr wanton winges display,And there to rest themselves did boldly place. Sweet thoughts! I envy your so happy rest, Which oft I wisht, yet never was so blest.Sonnet LXXVIIWas it a dreame, or did I see it playne?A goodly table of pure yvory,All spred with juncats, fit to entertayneThe greatest Prince with pompous roialty?Mongst which, there in a silver dish did lyTwo golden apples of unvalewd price;Far passing those which Atalanta did entice:Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice;That man sought, yet none could ever taste;Sweet fruit of pleasure, brought from paradiceBy Love himselfe, and in his garden plaste! Her brest that table was, so richly spredd; My thoughts the guests which would thereon have fedd.
"In a Gondola" by Robert Browning (excerpts)
He sings
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart In this my singing.For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clingingCloser to Venice streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy faceMay light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place
She speaks
Say after me, and try to sayMy very words, as if each wordCame from you of your own accordIn your own voice, in your own way:"This woman's heart and soul and brainAre mine as much as this gold chainShe bids me wear; which" (say again)"I choose to make by cherishingA precious thing, or choose to flingOver the boat-side, ring by ring."And yet once more say... no word more!Since words are only words. Give o'er!
The moth's kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made believeYou were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.
The bee's kiss, now!Kiss me as if you entered gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is rendered up,And passively its shattered cupOver your head to sleep I bow.
He speaks, musing
Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?From this shoulder let there springA wing; from this, another wing;Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!Snow-white must they spring, to blendWith your flesh, but I intendThey shall deepen to the end,Broader, into burning gold,Till both wings crescent-wise enfoldYour perfect self, from 'neath your feetTo o'er your head, where, lo, they meetAs if a million sword-blades hurledDefiance from you to the world!
Rescue me thou, the only real!And scare away this mad idealThat came, nor motions to depart!Thanks! Now, stay as thou art!
"I do not love Thee" by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
I DO not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sighThat those I do love are not more like thee!I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the toneThy voice of music leaves upon my ear.I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise,Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,Because they see me gazing where thou art.
"Return" by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Absent from thee, I languish still;Then ask me not, When I return?The straying fool ’twill plainly killTo wish all day, all night to mourn.Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,That my fantastic mind may proveThe torments it deserves to try,That tears my fix’d heart from my love.When, wearied with a world of woe,To thy safe bosom I retire,Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,May I contented there expire!Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,I fall on some base heart unblest;Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven—And lose my everlasting rest.
"Renouncement" by Alice Meynell
I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the thought that lurks in all delight— The thought of thee—and in the blue heaven’s height,And in the dearest passage of a song.Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright:But it must never, never come in sight;I must stop short of thee the whole day long.But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,Must doff my will as raiment laid away,— With the first dream that comes with the first sleepI run, I run, I am gather’d to thy heart.
"My Delight and Thy Delight" by Robert Bridges
MY delight and thy delightWalking, like two angels white,In the gardens of the night:My desire and thy desireTwining to a tongue of fire,Leaping live, and laughing higher:Thro’ the everlasting strifeIn the mystery of life.Love, from whom the world begun,Hath the secret of the sun.Love can tell, and love alone,Whence the million stars were strewn,Why each atom knows its own,How, in spite of woe and death,Gay is life, and sweet is breath:This he taught us, this we knew,Happy in his science true,Hand in hand as we stood’Neath the shadows of the wood,Heart to heart as we layIn the dawning of the day.
"The Indian Serenade" by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright.I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—And the Champak’s odoursLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale’s complaint,It dies upon her heart,As I must on thine,O belovèd as thou art!O lift me from the grass!I die! I faint! I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast:O press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last!
"A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns
O my Luve’s like a red, red roseThat’s newly sprung in June:O my Luve’s like the melodieThat’s sweetly play’d in tune!As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am IAnd I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a’ the seas gang dry:Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o’ life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only luve,And fare thee weel a while!And I will come again, my Luve,Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
"I'll never love Thee more" by James Graham, Marquis of Montrose
MY dear and only Love, I prayThat little world of theeBe govern’d by no other swayThan purest monarchy;For if confusion have a part(Which virtuous souls abhor),And hold a synod in thine heart,I’ll never love thee more.Like Alexander I will reign,And I will reign alone;My thoughts did evermore disdainA rival on my throne.He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,That dares not put it to the touch,To gain or lose it all.And in the empire of thine heart,Where I should solely be,If others do pretend a partOr dare to vie with me,Or if Committees thou erect,And go on such a score,I’ll laugh and sing at thy neglect,And never love thee more.But if thou wilt prove faithful then,And constant of thy word,I’ll make thee glorious by my penAnd famous by my sword;I’ll serve thee in such noble waysWas never heard before;I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays,And love thee more and more.
"To Electra" by Robert Herrick
I dare not ask to kiss,I dare not beg a smile,Lest having that, or this,I might grow proud the while.No, no, the utmost shareOf my desire shall beOnly to kiss the airThat lately kissèd thee.
"Being Your Slave" by William Shakespeare
Being your slave, what should I do but tendUpon the hours and times of your desire?I have no precious time at all to spend,Nor services to do, till you require.Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hourWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sourWhen you have bid your servant once adieu;Nor dare I question with my jealous thoughtWhere you may be, or your affairs suppose,But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are how happy you make those! So true a fool is love, that in your Will, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
"The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dales and fields,Or woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.
"The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dales and fields,Or woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love
"Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day" by William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:But thy eternal Summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
"To His Coy Love" by Michael Drayton
I pray thee, leave, love me no more,Call home the heart you gave me!I but in vain that saint adoreThat can but will not save me.These poor half-kisses kill me quite—Was ever man thus servèd?Amidst an ocean of delightFor pleasure to be starvèd?Show me no more those snowy breastsWith azure riverets branchèd,Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell!By me thou art prevented:’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,But thus in Heaven tormented.Clip me no more in those dear arms,Nor thy life’s comfort call me,O these are but too powerful charms,And do but more enthral me!But see how patient I am grownIn all this coil about thee:Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone,I cannot live without thee!
"Phillis 2" by Thomas Lodge
Love guards the roses of thy lips And flies about them like a bee;If I approach he forward skips, And if I kiss he stingeth me.Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look the boy will lower, And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.Love works thy heart within his fire, And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt it will retire, And of my plaints doth make a game.Love, let me cull her choicest flowers; And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers Then will I praise thy deity.But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
"Song of Solomon" from the King James Bible (extract)
The song of songs, which is Solomon's.Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.Draw me, we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee.I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions?If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds' tents.I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh's chariots.Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold.We will make thee borders of gold with studs of silver.While the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof.A bundle of myrrh is my wellbeloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of En-gedi.Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes.Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green.The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.
"To Chloe: Who for his sake wished herself younger" by William Cartwright
THERE are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awaken’d sense;The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence:When you loved me and I loved youThen both of us were born anew.Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers;Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours:Love makes those young whom age doth chill,And whom he finds young keeps young still.
"Yourself the Sun, and I the melting Frost" by Sir Arthur Gorges
Yourself the sun, and I the melting frost, Myself the flax and you the kindly fire,Yourself the maze wherein my self is lost, I your disdain, yet you my heart's desire,Your love the port whereto my fancies sail, My hope the ship whose helm your fair hand guides,Your grace the wind that must my course avail My faith the flood, your frowns the ebbing tides,Yourself the spring and I the toiling bee. My thoughts in you, though yours elsewhere, do rest.You are the brook and I the deer embossedMy heaven is you, yet you torment my ghost.
"When You are Old" by William Butler Yeats
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleepAnd nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true;But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overhead,And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
How should I know? The enormous wheels of will Drove me cold-eyed on tired and sleepless feet.Night was void arms and you a phantom still And day your far light swaying down the street.As never fool for love, I starved for you; My throat was dry and my eyes hot to see.Your mouth so lying was most heaven in view, And your remembered smell most agony.Love wakens love! I felt your hot wrist shiver And suddenly the mad victory I planned Flashed real, in your burning bending head. . .My conqueror's blood was cool as a deep river In shadow; and my heart beneath your hand Quieter than a dead man on a bed.
"Lovers' Infiniteness" by John Donne
If yet I have not all the love,Dear, I shall never have it all,I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move,Nor can entreat one other tear to fall.All my treasure, which should purchase thee,Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters I have spent,Yet no more can be due to me,Than at the bargain made was meant.If then thy gift of love were partial,That some to me, some should to others fall, Dear, I shall never have thee all.
Or if then thou gavest me all,All was but all, which thou hadst then;But if in thy heart, since, there be or shallNew love created be, by other men,Which have their stocks entire, and can in tears,In sighs, in oaths, and letters outbid me,This new love may beget new fears,For, this love was not vowed by thee.And yet it was, thy gift being general,The ground, thy heart is mine; whatever shall Grow there, dear, I should have it all.
Yet I would not have all yet,He that hath all can have no more,And since my love doth every day admitNew growth, thou shouldst have new rewards in store;Thou canst not every day give me thy heart,If thou canst give it, then thou never gav'st it;Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart,It stays at home, and thou with losing sav'st it:But we will have a way more liberal,Than changing hearts, to join them, so we shall Be one, and another's all.
"A Love Song" by William Carlos Williams
What have I to say to youWhen we shall meet?Yet—I lie here thinking of you.
The stain of loveIs upon the world.Yellow, yellow, yellow,It eats into the leaves,Smears with saffronThe horned branches that leanHeavilyAgainst a smooth purple sky.
There is no light—Only a honey-thick stainThat drips from leaf to leafAnd limb to limbSpoiling the coloursOf the whole world.
I am alone.The weight of loveHas buoyed me upTill my headKnocks against the sky.
See me!My hair is dripping with nectar—Starlings carry itOn their black wings.See, at lastMy arms and my handsAre lying idle.
How can I tellIf I shall ever love you againAs I do now?
(First version 1915) - from "Poems 1916"
"I like my body when it is with your" by e.e. cummings
i like my body when it is with yourbody. It is so quite a new thing.Muscles better and nerves more.i like your body. i like what it does,i like its hows. i like to feel the spineof your body and its bones,and the trembling-firm-smooth ness and which i willagain and again and againkiss, i like kissing this and that of you,i like,slowly stroking the, shocking fuzzof your electric fur,and what-is-it comesover parting flesh....And eyes big love crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrillof under me you so quite new(1925)
"Love" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.Oft in my waking dreams do ILive o’er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin’d tower.The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene,Had blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!She lean’d against the armèd man,The statue of the armèd Knight;She stood and listen’d to my lay, Amid the lingering light.Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best whene’er I sing The songs that make her grieve.I play’d a soft and doleful air;I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.She listen’d with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he woo’d The Lady of the Land.I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another’s love, Interpreted my own.She listen’d with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face!But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he cross’d the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade—There came and look’d him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!And that, unknowing what he did,He leap’d amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;—And how she wept and clasp’d his knees;And how she tended him in vain—And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;—And that she nursed him in a cave;And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay;—His dying words—but when I reach’dThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb’d her soul with pity!All impulses of soul and senseHad thrill’d my guileless Genevieve;The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,An undistinguishable throng,And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish’d long!She wept with pity and delight,She blush’d with love and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.Her bosom heaved—she stepp’d aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.She half enclosed me with her arms,She press’d me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, look’d up, And gazed upon my face.’Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly ’twas a bashful art,That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.I calm’d her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.
"A white Rose" by John Boyle O'Reilly
The red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose breathes of love;O, the red rose is a falcon,And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebudWith a flush on its petal tips;For the love that is purest and sweetestHas a kiss of desire on the lips.
"Perfect Woman" by William Wordsworth
SHE was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleam’d upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment’s ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.I saw her upon nearer view,A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature’s daily food;For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.
"Love is enough" by William Morris
LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning,And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discoverThe gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over,Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
"She walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron
SHE walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow’d to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair’d the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o’er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
"Blow Northern Wind" Anonymous (c. 1300)
I know a maiden in bower bright,Who full fair is to sight,Glorious maiden of mightFair and free.In all this noble multitude,A woman of blood and birth.I knew not everA more lovely one on earth.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
With locks lovely and long,With body and face fair to hold,With many mirths might she mingleThat maiden so glorious in her bowerWith glorious eyes great and good,With blissful brows under her hood.He who was stayed on the crossHis lovely life she honours.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
Her face beams lightAs a lantern at night,Her hue shines so brightSo fair is she and fine.A darling neck she has to holdWith arms, shoulders, as one would desireAnd fingers fair to fold -God, would she were mine.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
She is coral of goodness,She is ruby of rightfulness,She is crystal of cleanness,And banner of beauty.She is lily of largess,She is periwinkle of prowess,She is sunflower of sweetness,And lady of loyalty.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
For her love I cry and moan,For her love I droop and am dismayed,For her love my bliss is nought,And I grow wan.For her love my sleep I break,For her love all night I wake,For her love mourning I make,More than any man.Blow northern wind!Send me my sweet one,Blow northern wind! Blow, blow, blow!
Translated for Bibliomania by Kate McClune.
"Monna Innominata" Sonnets i-iii by Christina Rossetti
(i)
'Lo dì che han detto a' dolci amici addio.' — Dante 'Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci!' — Petrarca
Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:— Or come not yet, for it is over then, And long it is before you come again,So far between my pleasures are and few.While, when you come not, what I do I do Thinking 'Now when he comes,' my sweetest 'when?:' For one man is my world of all the menThis wide world holds; O love, my world is you.Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang Because the pang of parting comes so soon; My hope hangs waning, waxing like a moon Between the heavenly days on which we meet:Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang When life was sweet because you called them sweet?
(ii)
'Era già l'oa che volge il desio.' — Dante 'Ricorro al tempo ch'io vi vidi prima.' — Petrarca
I wish I could remember, that first day, First hour, first moment of your meeting me, If bright or dim the season, it might beSummer or Winter for aught that I can say;So unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was I to see and to foresee, So dull to mark the budding of my treeThat would not blossom yet for many a May.If only I could recollect it, such A day of days! I let it come and go As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;It seemed to me so little, meant so much;If only now I could recall that touch, First touch of hand in hand—Did one but know!
(iii)
'O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto!' — Dante 'Immaginata guida la conduce.' — Petrarca
I dream of you to wake: would that I might Dream of you and not wake but slumber on; Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone,As Summer ended Summer birds take flight.In happy dreams I hold you full in sight, I blush again who waking look so wan; Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone,In happy dreams your smile makes day of night.Thus only in a dream we are at one, The faith that maketh rich who take or give; If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake, To die were surely sweeter than to live,Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.
"Amoretti" Sonnets LXXV-LXXVII by Edmund Spenser
Sonnet LXXVOne day I wrote her name upon the strand;But came the waves, and washed it away.Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand;But came the tyde, and made my paynes his prey.Vayne man! sayd she, that doest in vaine assayA mortall thing so to immortalize;For I my selfe shall lyke to this decay,And eek my name bee wyped out lykewize.Not so (quod I); let baser things devizeTo dy in dust, but you shall live in fame:My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,And in the hevens wryte your glorious name; Where, when as death shall all the world subdew, Our love shall live, and later life renew.Sonnet LXXVIFayre bosome! fraught with vertues richest tresure,The neast of love, the lodging of delight,The bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasureThe sacred harbour of that hevenly spright;How I was ravisht with your lovely sight,And my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray!Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight,On the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray;And twixt her paps, like early fruit in May,Whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace,They loosely did theyr wanton winges display,And there to rest themselves did boldly place. Sweet thoughts! I envy your so happy rest, Which oft I wisht, yet never was so blest.Sonnet LXXVIIWas it a dreame, or did I see it playne?A goodly table of pure yvory,All spred with juncats, fit to entertayneThe greatest Prince with pompous roialty?Mongst which, there in a silver dish did lyTwo golden apples of unvalewd price;Far passing those which Atalanta did entice:Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice;That man sought, yet none could ever taste;Sweet fruit of pleasure, brought from paradiceBy Love himselfe, and in his garden plaste! Her brest that table was, so richly spredd; My thoughts the guests which would thereon have fedd.
"In a Gondola" by Robert Browning (excerpts)
He sings
I send my heart up to thee, all my heart In this my singing.For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clingingCloser to Venice streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy faceMay light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place
She speaks
Say after me, and try to sayMy very words, as if each wordCame from you of your own accordIn your own voice, in your own way:"This woman's heart and soul and brainAre mine as much as this gold chainShe bids me wear; which" (say again)"I choose to make by cherishingA precious thing, or choose to flingOver the boat-side, ring by ring."And yet once more say... no word more!Since words are only words. Give o'er!
The moth's kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made believeYou were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.
The bee's kiss, now!Kiss me as if you entered gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is rendered up,And passively its shattered cupOver your head to sleep I bow.
He speaks, musing
Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?From this shoulder let there springA wing; from this, another wing;Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!Snow-white must they spring, to blendWith your flesh, but I intendThey shall deepen to the end,Broader, into burning gold,Till both wings crescent-wise enfoldYour perfect self, from 'neath your feetTo o'er your head, where, lo, they meetAs if a million sword-blades hurledDefiance from you to the world!
Rescue me thou, the only real!And scare away this mad idealThat came, nor motions to depart!Thanks! Now, stay as thou art!
"I do not love Thee" by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
I DO not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sighThat those I do love are not more like thee!I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the toneThy voice of music leaves upon my ear.I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise,Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,Because they see me gazing where thou art.
"Return" by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Absent from thee, I languish still;Then ask me not, When I return?The straying fool ’twill plainly killTo wish all day, all night to mourn.Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,That my fantastic mind may proveThe torments it deserves to try,That tears my fix’d heart from my love.When, wearied with a world of woe,To thy safe bosom I retire,Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,May I contented there expire!Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,I fall on some base heart unblest;Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven—And lose my everlasting rest.
"Renouncement" by Alice Meynell
I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the thought that lurks in all delight— The thought of thee—and in the blue heaven’s height,And in the dearest passage of a song.Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright:But it must never, never come in sight;I must stop short of thee the whole day long.But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,Must doff my will as raiment laid away,— With the first dream that comes with the first sleepI run, I run, I am gather’d to thy heart.
"My Delight and Thy Delight" by Robert Bridges
MY delight and thy delightWalking, like two angels white,In the gardens of the night:My desire and thy desireTwining to a tongue of fire,Leaping live, and laughing higher:Thro’ the everlasting strifeIn the mystery of life.Love, from whom the world begun,Hath the secret of the sun.Love can tell, and love alone,Whence the million stars were strewn,Why each atom knows its own,How, in spite of woe and death,Gay is life, and sweet is breath:This he taught us, this we knew,Happy in his science true,Hand in hand as we stood’Neath the shadows of the wood,Heart to heart as we layIn the dawning of the day.
"The Indian Serenade" by Percy Bysshe Shelley
I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright.I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber window, Sweet!The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—And the Champak’s odoursLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale’s complaint,It dies upon her heart,As I must on thine,O belovèd as thou art!O lift me from the grass!I die! I faint! I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast:O press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last!
"A Red, Red Rose" by Robert Burns
O my Luve’s like a red, red roseThat’s newly sprung in June:O my Luve’s like the melodieThat’s sweetly play’d in tune!As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am IAnd I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a’ the seas gang dry:Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o’ life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only luve,And fare thee weel a while!And I will come again, my Luve,Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
"I'll never love Thee more" by James Graham, Marquis of Montrose
MY dear and only Love, I prayThat little world of theeBe govern’d by no other swayThan purest monarchy;For if confusion have a part(Which virtuous souls abhor),And hold a synod in thine heart,I’ll never love thee more.Like Alexander I will reign,And I will reign alone;My thoughts did evermore disdainA rival on my throne.He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,That dares not put it to the touch,To gain or lose it all.And in the empire of thine heart,Where I should solely be,If others do pretend a partOr dare to vie with me,Or if Committees thou erect,And go on such a score,I’ll laugh and sing at thy neglect,And never love thee more.But if thou wilt prove faithful then,And constant of thy word,I’ll make thee glorious by my penAnd famous by my sword;I’ll serve thee in such noble waysWas never heard before;I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays,And love thee more and more.
"To Electra" by Robert Herrick
I dare not ask to kiss,I dare not beg a smile,Lest having that, or this,I might grow proud the while.No, no, the utmost shareOf my desire shall beOnly to kiss the airThat lately kissèd thee.
"Being Your Slave" by William Shakespeare
Being your slave, what should I do but tendUpon the hours and times of your desire?I have no precious time at all to spend,Nor services to do, till you require.Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hourWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sourWhen you have bid your servant once adieu;Nor dare I question with my jealous thoughtWhere you may be, or your affairs suppose,But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are how happy you make those! So true a fool is love, that in your Will, Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
"The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dales and fields,Or woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.
"The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" by Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dales and fields,Or woods or steepy mountain yields.And we will sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love
"Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day" by William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:But thy eternal Summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
"To His Coy Love" by Michael Drayton
I pray thee, leave, love me no more,Call home the heart you gave me!I but in vain that saint adoreThat can but will not save me.These poor half-kisses kill me quite—Was ever man thus servèd?Amidst an ocean of delightFor pleasure to be starvèd?Show me no more those snowy breastsWith azure riverets branchèd,Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell!By me thou art prevented:’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,But thus in Heaven tormented.Clip me no more in those dear arms,Nor thy life’s comfort call me,O these are but too powerful charms,And do but more enthral me!But see how patient I am grownIn all this coil about thee:Come, nice thing, let thy heart alone,I cannot live without thee!
"Phillis 2" by Thomas Lodge
Love guards the roses of thy lips And flies about them like a bee;If I approach he forward skips, And if I kiss he stingeth me.Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And sleeps within their pretty shine;And if I look the boy will lower, And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.Love works thy heart within his fire, And in my tears doth firm the same;And if I tempt it will retire, And of my plaints doth make a game.Love, let me cull her choicest flowers; And pity me, and calm her eye;Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers Then will I praise thy deity.But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve herIn spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
"Song of Solomon" from the King James Bible (extract)
The song of songs, which is Solomon's.Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.Draw me, we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee.I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the flocks of thy companions?If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock, and feed thy kids beside the shepherds' tents.I have compared thee, O my love, to a company of horses in Pharaoh's chariots.Thy cheeks are comely with rows of jewels, thy neck with chains of gold.We will make thee borders of gold with studs of silver.While the king sitteth at his table, my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof.A bundle of myrrh is my wellbeloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.My beloved is unto me as a cluster of camphire in the vineyards of En-gedi.Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes.Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green.The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir.I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste.He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love.Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills.My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, shewing himself through the lattice.My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes.My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether.
"To Chloe: Who for his sake wished herself younger" by William Cartwright
THERE are two births; the one when light First strikes the new awaken’d sense;The other when two souls unite, And we must count our life from thence:When you loved me and I loved youThen both of us were born anew.Love then to us new souls did give And in those souls did plant new powers;Since when another life we live, The breath we breathe is his, not ours:Love makes those young whom age doth chill,And whom he finds young keeps young still.
"Yourself the Sun, and I the melting Frost" by Sir Arthur Gorges
Yourself the sun, and I the melting frost, Myself the flax and you the kindly fire,Yourself the maze wherein my self is lost, I your disdain, yet you my heart's desire,Your love the port whereto my fancies sail, My hope the ship whose helm your fair hand guides,Your grace the wind that must my course avail My faith the flood, your frowns the ebbing tides,Yourself the spring and I the toiling bee. My thoughts in you, though yours elsewhere, do rest.You are the brook and I the deer embossedMy heaven is you, yet you torment my ghost.
"When You are Old" by William Butler Yeats
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleepAnd nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true;But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overhead,And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
posted by omigosh @ 3:34 AM
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