1.

A Scholar first my Love implor'd,
And then an empty titled Lord;
The Pedant, talk'd in lofty Strains;
Alas! his Lordship wanted Brains:
I list'ned not, to one or t'other,
But strait referr'd them to my Mother.

2.

A Poet next my Love assail'd,
A Lawyer hop'd to have prevail'd;
The Bard too much approv'd himself,
The Lawyer thirsted after Pelf:
I list'ned not, to one or t'other,
But still referr'd them to my Mother.

3.

An Officer, my Heart wou'd storm,
A Miser, sought me too, in Form;

A maiden to the Delphic temple came,
And hid her brows, and at the shrine bent low.
" What wilt thou?" " Fain would I the future know."
" Of two gifts then have one. Choose: Love or Fame?"
" O Sun-God! Laurels grant, a deathless name!
So at my song far nations' tears may flow,
And men remember though from hence I go;
For in my breast I feel the sacred flame."

Years pass. A weeping woman kneels again,
For mercy to the oracle she sues:
" O give me Love! Take back the bay-crown'd lyre!
Life dawns for me; till now I've lived in vain.

With a thousand nights' dream
I have rinsed clear the gentle brow
of my heart's love,
to transplant it
into the heavens.
A fierce bird
knows, and in mimicry
arcs through the midwinter sky.

We who have loved, alas! may not be friends,
Too faint, or yet too fierce, the stifled fire, —
A random spark — and lo! our dead desire
Leaps into flame, as though to make amends
For chill, blank days, and with strange fury rends
The dying embers of Love's funeral pyre.
Electric, charged anew, the living wire
A burning message through our torpor sends.
Could we but pledge, with loyal hearts and eyes,
A friendship worthy of the fair, full past,
Now mutilate, and lost beyond recall,
Then might a Phaenix from its ashes rise

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare:
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.
Which he immediately rendered

I do not love you, Dr. Fell ,
But why I cannot tell;
But this I know full well,
I do not love you, Dr. Fell .

L'homme qui ne se trouve point, et ne se trouvera jamais

The Man who feels the dear Disease
Forgets himselfe, neglects to please,
The croud avoids, and seeks the Groves,
And much he thinks, when much he loves,
Press'd with alternate Hope and Fear
Sighs in her Absence, sighs when she is near;
The Gay, the fond, the Fair and young,
Those Trifflers pass unseen along,
To him, a pert insipid throng.
But most he shuns the vain Coquette,
Contemns her false affected Wit,
The Minstrels Sound, the flowing Bowl,

Why art thou, Love, so fair, so young?
Why is that sad sweet music hung,
For ever, on thy gentle tongue?

Why art thou fond? Why art thou fair?
Why sitteth, in thy soft eye, Care?
Why smil'st thou in such sweet despair?

Youth, Beauty fade, — like summer roses:
Sad music sadder love discloses:
Dark Care in darker death reposes!

All 's vain! the rough world careth not
For thee — for me — for our dark lot:
We love, Sweet, but to be forgot!

We love, — and meet the world's sharp scorn:
We live, — to die some common morn,

There is a strong wall about me to protect me:
It is built of the words you have said to me.

There are swords about me to keep me safe:
They are the kisses of your lips.

Before me goes a shield to guard me from harm:
It is the shadow of your arms between me and danger.

All the wishes of my mind know your name,
And the white desires of my heart
They are acquainted with you.
The cry of my body for completeness,
That is a cry to you.
My blood beats out your name to me, unceasing, pitiless —
Your name, your name.

The sacred Nine delight in cruel Love ,
Tread in his Steps, and all his Ways approve:
Should some rude Swain, whom Love could ne'er refine,
Woo the fair Muses, they his Suit decline;
But if the love-sick Shepherd sweetly sing,
The tuneful Choir, attending in a Ring,
Catch the soft Sounds, and tune the vocal Shell;
This Truth by frequent Precedent I tell:
For when I praise some Hero on my Lyre,
Or, nobly daring, to a God aspire,
In Strains more languid flows the nerveless Song,
Or dies in faltering Accents on my Tongue: