I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be suppressed.

Some gentler passion slide into my mind,

I MADE a song for my dear love's delight;
I wrought with all sweet words my heart could lend
To longing lips, and thrilled with joy to send
The message only love could read aright.
He came; and while I trembled in his sight,
He kissed my hands and said, “To what sweet end,
Unknowing, hast thou wrought, O gentle friend?
Singing thy song, I learned to woo, despite
My loved one's frown; and now she is my own.”
Blessing me then, he went his happy way.
The whole world sings my song, and I alone
Am silent; yet through tears I sometimes say,

Jesu, still the storm!
Only thou hast power,
In this troubled hour,
To bid our tremblings cease,
And give our spirits peace.
Jesu, still the storm!

Speak the potent word,
“Peace, be still!” and then
Calm returns again;
Each billow hides its crest,
And lays itself to rest.
Speak the potent word!

Jesu, love us still!
Oh, love on, love on,
As thou hast ever done;
Oh love us to the end,
Our one unchanging friend.
Jesu, love us still!

Jesu, bless us still!
Bless us on and on,
Till our heaven be won;

O fathomless profound of rest,
In God to read a Father's name;
And childlike clinging to His breast
My birthright in His love to claim!

O miracle of grace to kneel
With boldness at the Throne of thrones;
Blood-wash'd, with nothing to conceal;
White-robed amid God's ransom'd ones!

O mystery of love divine!
Eternal Spirit, dost Thou choose
To make my lowly heart Thy shrine
And there Thy light of life diffuse?

And am I of the chosen Bride
Given by the Father to the Son,
In all His glory glorified,
And in His perfect union one?

I BROKE my heart because of you, my dear;
I wept full many an unmanly tear—
But as in agony I lay awake
I thought, “What lovely poems this will make!”

He loves not well whose love is bold!
I would not have thee come too nigh:
The sun's gold would not seem pure gold
Unless the sun were in the sky;
To take him thence and chain him near
Would make his beauty disappear.

He keeps his state,—keep thou in thine,
And shine upon me from afar!
So shall I bask in light divine,
That falls from love's own guiding star;
So shall thy eminence be high,
And so my passion shall not die.

But all my life shall reach its hands
Of lofty longing toward thy face,
And be as one who speechless stands

Among thy Fancies, tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kisse?
I shall resolve ye, what it is.

It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips, (all cherrie-red,)
By love and warme desires fed,
Chor. And makes more soft the Bridall Bed.

It is an active flame, that flies,
First, to the Babies of the eyes;
And charmes them there with lullabies;
Chor. And stils the Bride too, when she cries.

Then to the chin, the cheek, the eare,
It frisks, and flyes, now here, now there,
'Tis now farre off, and then tis nere;

Amidst the fairest mountain tops,
Where Zephyrus doth breathe
The pleasant gale, that clothes with flowers
The valleys underneath,

A shepherd lived, that dearly loved
(Dear love time brought to pass)
A forest nymph, who was as fair
As ever woman was.

His thoughts were higher than the hills
Whereof he had the keep,
But all his actions innocent,
As humble as his sheep:

Yet had he power, but her pure thoughts
Debarred his powers to rise
Higher than kissing of her hands
Or looking in her eyes.

One day (I need not name the day

All day I tell my rosary
For now my love's away:
To-morrow he shall come to me
About the break of day;
A rosary of twenty hours,
And then a rose of May;
A rosary of fettered flowers,
And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary,
My rosary of hours:
And here's a flower of memory,
And here's a hope of flowers,
And here's an hour that yearns with pain
For old forgotten years,
An hour of loss, an hour of gain,
And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary,
Because my love's away;
And never a whisper comes to me,

Love setteth me a-burning,
When my new spouse had won me;
My piteous state discerning,
Had set his ring upon me:
The conqueror's prize returning,
Love's knife had all undone me,
All my heart broke with yearning.
Love setteth me a-burning.

My heart was broke asunder:
Earthward my body sprawling,
The arrow of Love's wonder
From out the crossbow falling,
Like to a shaft of thunder
Made war of peace, enthralling
My life for passion's plunder.
Love setteth me a-burning.

I die of very sweetness.
Yet be thou not astounded.