love poems

XI

Behold Her now by Loves and Graces drest!
Like the Great Wife of Jove in Venus Cest ;
Now She may ask whate're the God can grant,
If ought of Pow'r, or Glory, She can want;
But Heav'n has superseded all Her care,
And giv'n till it has left no use for Pray'r.
No wish for Times swift Coursers to run back,
To catch one flying minute past;
The coming hours, new pleasures hast;

Y E'VE often, for our drunkenness,
Blamed us in ev'ry way,
And, in abuse of drunkenness,
Enough can never say.
Men, overcome by drunkenness,
Are wont to lie till day;
And yet I find my drunkenness
All night-time make me stray;
For, oh! 'tis Love's sweet drunkenness
That maketh me its prey,
Which, night and day, and day and night,
My heart must needs obey, —

And wherefore sends not
The horseman-captain
His heralds hither
Each day, unfailing?
Yet hath he horses,
He writeth well.

He writeth Talik,
And Neski knows he
To write with beauty
On silken tablets.
I'd deem him present,
Had I his words.

The sick One will not,
Will not recover
From her sweet sorrow;
She, when she heareth
That her true lover
Grows well, falls sick.

That Suleika's love was so strong
For Jussuf, need cause no surprise;
He was young, youth pleaseth the eyes, —
He was fair, they say, beyond measure
Fair was she, and so great was their pleasure.
But that thou, who awaitedst me long,
Youthful glances of fire dost throw me,
Soon wilt bless me, thy love now dost show me,
This shall my joyous numbers proclaim,
Thee I for ever Suleika shall name.

Love is the passion which endureth,
Which neither time nor absence cureth;
Which nought of earthly change can sever:
Love is the light which shines for ever.

What cold and selfish breasts deem madness
Lives in its depths of joy and sadness;
In hearts, on lips, of flame it burneth —
One is its world, to one it turneth.

Its chain of gold — what hand can break it?
Its deathless hold — what force can shake it?
Mere passion aught of earth may sever,
But souls that love, love on for ever.

And an astronomer said, Master, what of Time?
And he answered:
You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable.
You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.
Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.
Yet the timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness,
And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.

Then said Almitra, Speak to us of Love.
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

1

Lying upon the beach,
Beelow mee on the sands,
I saw within small reach
A lady ly in bands,
With armes across, and hands
Infolded in thos twines,
Wherby a true love climes
And for loves triumph stands,

2

Alas, cride she, can love
Beequeath mee noe small space
Wher I may live, and love
Butt run in ruins race?
Nor yett to gaine deaths trace,
You locks of his owne haire,
Wittnes I still you beare
In my harts deerest place,

3

Butt O faulse is his hart,

Love butt a phantesie light, and vaine
Fluttering butt in poorest braine,
Birds in chimnies make a thunder
Putting silly soules in wounder
Soe doth this love, this all commaunder
To a weake poore understander;

2

Slight him, and hee'le your servant bee,
Adore him, you his slave must bee,
Scorne him, O how hee will pray you,
Please him, and hee'lle sure beetray you,
Lett nott his faulshood bee esteemed
Least your self bee disesteemed.

3

Crush nott your witts to place him high,

1

Fierce love, alas yett lett mee rest,
Beeholde my boyling brest:
Lett mee butt slumber, if nott sleepe
Continually to weepe
Is too great a smart
To a hart
Transform'd like Niobe to watry powers
Telling howers
In drops of my misfortunes arte;

2

Cruell, alas, why doe thos eyes
Rule of the heavenly skies
Joye in my ruin? My poore streames
Flumes can nott coole your beames
For loves sacred fire
Must aspire
Transcendant to the highest powers
Telling howers