I love the raving winds, the murky gloom
And I love the sea
When ocean billows burst in frothy hum
And where they silent be
I love the rough and smooth of nature's voice
The quiet, and the rude
For Nature never had unpleasant voice
But sweet as Solitude

I love the tumult in the forest trees
And wood winds to hear
In nature's soul of quiet sympathies
There—ther's nought to fear
Nothing creating pain or harm
And no noises rude
The loud tongued thunder is a lovely charm
A companion in solitude—

Jesus Christ my Leman sweet,
That diedest on the bitter tree,
With all my might I thee beseech
For thy deep Wounds two and three,
That as firmly may Thy love
In to mine heart fixèd be
As was the spear in to thine Heart
When thou sufferedst death for me.
My Jesus sweet who died on Rood,
For the love of me,—
And boughtest me with Thy Blood,
Have then Mercy upon me;
And should me hinder any thing
From my love of Thee,
Should it be dear it shall be loathed;
So take it away from me.

Come, Autumn, come again with sober bloom
And shed sweet fragrance on love's fair increase
Year upon year, from the faint far perfume
Of bridal rose till this glad day of peace.
Though some who smelt the rose
Are gone, and some of those
We love and wish were here, away,
Yet Autumn, let thy spirit consecrate the day.

When April smiles, the earth's broad bosom feels
The throb of life and sap that wakes her veins,
Delights therein alone; at April's heels
Sees not the following months and all their trains;
While these come all unguessed,

Oft the confession of my changeless love
Your close-drawn lattice in the night must hear:
The moon, befriending hearts bereft of cheer,
Knows well my longing as she gleams above:
Your name is cooed to me by that wild dove
Whose haunts I visit when the eve is near:
At morn my madrigals glad-voiced and clear
Fill with their ecstasy the hill and grove.
To you alone my secret reaches never,
Howe'er my heartbeat strives to tell the tale
Unbidden, ardent in a dear endeavor.
Perchance for all time shall its message fail,

Your talk was most in praise of these poor features,
And of my body—not unequalled 'mongst God's creatures.
And even did your courteous fancy find
Some small perfection in a woman's mind.
But of my soul, sir, not a word!
Till your quite reasonable anger stirred
To bring our love to sudden wreck.
'Twas then you stayed my ecstasies
With truth! Which ended in this wise:—
“Woman! Your soul's a stone about your neck.”

Maybe our love had happier consummation
Had this part known more quick consideration!

Verily the young would love me
For what I should say;
For I sing in graceful accents,
I can sweetly talk.

Waves are stirring, winds are playing,
Peaceful is their interflow.
Rye, through parted boughs half-hinted,
Ripples golden-tinted
To and fro.
Thou alone art elsewhere straying.
Softlier the pulses leap.
Far-off music, faintly playing,
Stills me nigh to sleep.

Clouds go past like lovely shining
Swans across the sea of sky,
Floating soundlessly and lonely;
Swans break silence only
When they die.
Through the day with dull repining
I have labored wearily.
I would join the lovely shining
Swans and float to thee.

When all the loves that loved her for her soul
Have married fleshly wives and comfortable,
When all the loves that loved her over well
For her sweet virtue have endured control,
When all the loves that loved her down the roll
Of every excellence she should excel
Have lost their adjectives—then I shall tell
Wherefore I loved her, and tell true the whole.

I loved her for her youth that could not last,
I loved her for her laugh that could but die,
I loved her face that death should overcast,
I loved her but a day and it was past,—

We've cast off, for love of the winehouse, The usance of dawntide prayer;
The produce and gain of devotion We've laid in the path of the fair.

This caut'ry, wherewith we have branded, For passion, our frenzied hearts,
The harvest of hundreds of sages With pity hath set a-flare.

The Lord of Eternity gave us The treasure of love and grief,
When first to this wasted desert Our faces we set whilere.

There cannot a worse dissembler Than we in the patchcoat be,
Who've stablished in toper-usance The basis of our affair.

Soul parted from thy Love, kindle a lamp within the shrine.

There is no wick, nor lamp, nor oil, yet shall there be light, I know not how.
The Lord of my soul to my house has come: let my bed be decked with coverings rare.

In the bed of my heart with bliss transported the Eternal Essence rested, my Lord transcendant, without form.
Come and with one heart sing the joyful bridal song: for Yari has met his Love.