1:Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine overhead?
2:No; but the voice of the deep as it hollows the cliffs of the land.
1:Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the deep from the strand,
One coming up with a song in the flush of the glimmering red?
2:Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea.
1:Love that can shape or can shatter a life till the life shall have fled?
2:Nay, let us welcome him, Love that can lift up a life from the dead.
1:Keep him away from the lone little isle. Let us be, let us be.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of lust,
Some with the hands of gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:

Love's Perversity

How strange a thing a lover seems
To animals that do not love!
Lo, where he walks and talks in dreams,
And flouts us with his Lady's glove;
How foreign is the garb he wears;
And how his great devotion mocks
Our poor propriety, and scares
The undevout with paradox!
His soul, through scorn of worldly care,
And great extremes of sweet and gall,
And musing much on all that's fair,

'Twas when the spousal time of May
Hangs all the hedge with bridal wreaths,
And air's so sweet the bosom gay
Gives thanks for every breath it breathes;
When like to like is gladly moved,
And each thing joins in Spring's refrain,
"Let those love now who never loved;
"Let those who have loved love again;'
That I, in whom the sweet time wrought,
Lay stretch'd within a lonely glade,
Abandon'd to delicious thought,
Beneath the softly twinkling shade.
The leaves, all stirring, mimick'd well
A neighbouring rush of rivers cold,

What measure Fate to him shall mete
Is not the noble Lover's care;
He's heart-sick with a longing sweet
To make her happy as she's fair.
Oh, misery, should she him refuse,
And so her dearest good mistake!
His own success he thus pursues
With frantic zeal for her sole sake.

To lose her were his life to blight,
Being loss to hers; to make her his,
Except as helping her delight,
He calls but incidental bliss;
And, holding life as so much pelf
To buy her posies, learns this lore:
He does not rightly love himself

Whene'er I come where ladies are,
How sad soever I was before,
Though like a ship frost-bound and far
Withheld in ice from the ocean's roar,
Third-wintered in that dreadful dock,
With stiffened cordage, sails decayed,
And crew that care for calm and shock
Alike, too dull to be dismayed,
Yet, if I come where ladies are,
How sad soever I was before,
Then is my sadness banished far,
And I am like that ship no more;
Or like that ship if the ice-field splits,
Burst by the sudden polar Spring,
And all thank God with their warming wits,

By the great stones we chose our ground
For shade; and there, in converse sweet,
Took luncheon. On a little mound
Sat the three ladies; at their feet
I sat; and smelt the healthy smell,
Pluck'd harebells, turn'd the telescope
To the country round. My life went well,
For once, without the wheels of hope;
And I despised the Druid rocks
That scowl'd their chill gloom from above,
Like churls whose stolid wisdom mocks
The lightness of immortal love.
And, as we talk'd, my spirit quaff'd
The sparkling winds; the candid skies

Across the sky the daylight crept,
And birds grew garrulous in the grove,
And on my marriage-morn I slept
A soft sleep, undisturb'd by love.

Graecinus (well I wot) thou told'st me once
I could not be in love with two at once.
By thee deceiv'd, by thee surpris'd am I,
For now I love two women equally.
Both are well favoured, both rich in array,
Which is the loveliest it is hard to say.
This seems the fairest, so doth that to me,
And this doth please me most, and so doth she.
Even as a boat toss'd by contrary wind,
So with this love and that, wavers my mind.
Venus, why doublest thou my endless smart?
Was not one wench enough to grieve my heart?

My lifes Catastrophe is at an end,
The Staffe whereon my sickly Love did leane,
And which from falling (still) did him defend,
Is through mischance in sunder broken cleane.
 Gone is my Mediatrix , my best Advocate ,
 Who usde for me to intercessionate.

Ah that my Love cannot aright be waide
In Ballance just, as merits due desart,
But must with Hate (for her Goodwill) be paide,
Whereof Th'exchequer is mine ALBAS Hart:
 The Saphire cut with his owne dust may be,
 Mine owne pure Faith, in Love confoundeth me.