Sweet and lovely, dimly in my dream,
a warbling oriole, west of my emerald tree…
I rise, the sun is glowing red,
and he has moved to sing in another tree.

Teach me, dearest, how to win thee
For the worth is not in me.
Let the blessed light within thee
Make me liker unto thee.
All my heart's unwearied loving
But a broken thing would be
Save that with most kind approving
Thy redeeming eye should see.

Wolde God that it were so
As I coude wishe betwixt us two!

The man that I loved altherbest
In al this contré, est other west,
To me he is a strange gest:
What wonder is't though I be wo?

When me were levest that he shold dwell,
. . . . . .
He wold nought say ones farewell
When time was come that he most go.

In places ofte when I him mete,
I dare nought speke, but forth I go;
With herte and eyes I him grete—
So trewe of love I know no mo.

As he is myn herte love,
My derward dere, y-blessed he be!

Stir—
Shake off sleep.
Your eyes are the soul of clear waters—
Pigeons
In a city street.

Suns now dead
Have tucked away of their gold for your hair:
My buried mouth still tastes their fires.

A tender god built your breasts—
Apples of desire;
Their whiteness slakes the throat;
Their form soothes like honey.

Wake up!
Or the song-bird in my heart
Will peck open the shell of your dreams.
. . . . . . . . . .
Sleep, my own,
Soaring over rivers of fire.
Sleep, my own,
Wading waters of gold.

Joy is in my heart—

Accept, kind Sir, all I can give,
My wishes that you'll deign to live;
Nor doubt you'll meet some lovely fair,
By far more worthy of your care;
Who will reward your ardent flame,
With what Louisa dare not name;
By what is sanction'd by above,
A reciprocal mutual love.
Then spurn the maid you think unkind,
And tear her image from your mind;
Let Hope no longer be caress'd,
Within thy far too-constant breast.
Let sweet revenge her rage impart,
To pluck the viper from your heart.
May some kind nymph your love return,
And with a genial ardour burn;

Down in a green and shady bed,
—A modest violet grew.
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
—As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
—Its color bright and fair;
It might have graced a lovely bower,
—Instead of hiding there.

Yet thus it was content to bloom,
—In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffuse a sweet perfume,
—Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go
—This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
—In sweet humility.

Down in a green and shady bed,
—A modest violet grew.

Mye love toke skorne my servise to retaine
Wherein me thought she usid crueltie:
Sins with good will I lost my libretye
To followe her wiche causith all my payne.
Might never care cause me for to refrayne
But onlye this wiche is extremytie,
Gyving me nought, alas, not to agree
That as I was her man, I might remayne.
But sins that thus ye list to ordre me
That wolde have bene your servaunte true and faste,
Displese the not, my doting dayes bee paste,
And with my losse to leve I must agre;
For as there is a certeyne tyme to rage,

Ah ! could I but forget
Her beauty, her sweet tone
And talking, and that lovely look at one,
My martyrdom, I think, were ended yet.

But ah! I cannot tear myself apart:
And great simplicity
Is hope in me;
Only such thrall
Gives one the heart
To go through all

And how could I forget
Her beauty, her sweet tone
And talking, and that lovely look at one?
My martyrdom 's too sweet.

Some love endures a season;
It blossoms as the rose:
It blooms without a reason,
Without a thought it goes.
It comes through dreamland's portal;
It flashes on our eyes;
It makes some song immortal,
Then in an hour it dies.

Such love, though brief and hollow,
Wins worship as of old:
A thousand lovers follow
The form they may not hold.
“The fairest love is fleetest
And soonest lost in gloom;
Love's dawn,” they say, “is sweetest
When sunset brings its doom.”

If pleasure's white hand beckons,
What eager hearts pursue!

First in fair youth I sang the love of earth:
The flowers of youth before me bright as fire
Flickered,—I cherished many a winged desire;
To eager thoughts the laughing days gave birth.
Love had not known chill sorrow, nor the dearth
Of strength:—he rested on a bed of flowers:
Sweet joy was his, and tuneable soft hours,—
Pleasure, and mutual toil; and silvery mirth.

But Love was stricken. Then the earth became
No more a bower of roses, but of snow,—
One vast deep charnel-house, one waste of woe,
Lighted at times by lurid leaping flame.