CCLXII

Love hath again
Put me to pain
And yet all is but lost.
I serve in vain
And am certain
Of all misliked most.

Both heat and cold
Doth so me hold
And cumbers so my mind
That, when I should
Speak and be bold,
It draweth me still behind.

My wits be past,
My life doth waste,
My comfort is exiled.
And I in haste
Am like to taste
How love hath me beguiled.

Unless that right
May in her sight
Obtain pity and grace,
Why should a wight
Have beauty bright

CCL

Love whom ye list and spare not;
Therewith I am content.
Hate whom ye list for I care not,
For I am indifferent.

Do what ye list and dread not
After your own fancy.
Think what you list and fear not
For all is one to me.

But as for me I am not
Wavering as the wind
But even as one that recketh not
Which way ye turn your mind.

For in your love I dote not,
[Though you think I am caught.]
Whether you hate or hate not
Is least charge of my thought.

Wherefore I pray you forget not

CCXLVII

I have been a lover
Full long and many days
And oft-times a prover
Of the most painful ways.
But all that I have passed
As trifles to this last.

By proof I know the pain
Of them that sue and serve
And nothing can attain
Of that which they deserve.
But those pangs have I passed
As trifles to this last.

I have ere this been thrall
And durst it never show
But glad to suffer all
And so to cloak my woe.
Yet that pang have I passed
As trifles to this last.

By length of time ere now

No, no, the falling blossom is no sign
Of loveliness destroy'd and sorrow mute;
The blossom sheds its loveliness divine; —
Its mission is to prophecy the fruit.

Nor is the day of love for ever dead,
When young enchantment and romance are gone;
The veil is drawn, but all the future dread
Is lightened by the finger of the dawn.

Love moves with life along a darker way,
They cast a shadow and they call it death:
But rich is the fulfilment of their day;
The purer passion and the firmer faith.

CLXVI

My love is like unto th'eternal fire
And I as those which therein do remain
Whose grievous pains is but their great desire
To see the sight which they may not attain.
So in hell's heat myself I feel to be
That am restrained by great extremity
The sight of her which is so dear to me.
O puissant love and power of great avail
By whom hell may be felt or death assail!

I cannot lose thee for a day,
But like a bird with restless wing,
My heart will find thee far away,
And on thy bosom fall and sing,
My nest is here, my rest is here; —
And in the lull of wind and rain,
Fresh voices make a sweet refrain,
" His rest is there, his nest is there."

With thee the wind and sky are fair,
But parted, both are strange and dark;
And treacherous the quiet air
That holds me singing like a lark,
O shield my love, strong arm above!
Till in the rush of wind and rain,

CLV

For to love her for her looks lovely
My heart was set in thought right firmly,
Trusting by truth to have had redress.
But she hath made another promise
And hath given me leave full honestly.
Yet do I not rejoice it greatly
For on my faith I loved so surely.
But reason will that I do cease
For to love her.

Since that in love the pains been deadly,
Methink it best that readily
I do return to my first address,
For at this time too great is the press
And perils appear too abundantly
For to love her.

Twin stars of light! whose blended rays
Illuminate the darkest road
Where fortune's roving exile strays,
When doubt and care the wanderer load,
And drive him far from joy's abode.

Propitious Love and smiling Hope!
Be you my guides, and guardian powers,
If, doom'd with adverse fate to cope,
I quit in Honour's rigid hours
These dear, these bliss-devoted towers.

Yet here, O still, most radiant! here
(Attend this prayer of fond concern)
To beauty's bosom life endear,
Presaging as ye brightly burn
The rapture of my blest return.

Does Pity give, tho' Fate denies,
And to my wounds her balm impart?
O speak — with those expressive eyes!
Let one low sigh escape thine heart.

The gazing crowd shall never guess
What anxious, watchful Love can see;
Nor know what those soft looks express,
Nor dream that sigh is meant for me.

Ah! words are useless, words are vain,
Thy generous sympathy to prove;
And well that sigh, those looks explain,
That Clara mourns my hapless love.

Whether awaken'd from unquiet rest
 I watch “the opening eyelids of the Morn,”
When thou, O Sun! from Ocean's silver'd breast
 Emerging, bidst another day be born—
Or whether in thy path of cloudless blue,
 Thy noontide fires I mark with dazzled eyes;
Or to the West thy radiant course pursue,
 Veil'd in the gorgeous broidery of the skies,
Celestial lamp! thy influence bright and warm
 That renovates the world with life and light
Shines not for me—for never more the form
 I loved—so fondly loved, shall bless my sight;