It is not love to love the fair
And feast one's eyes on beauty rare,
For beauty all men's gaze enthrals,
Nor for a lover's rapture calls.

Nay, he alone true love doth know
Who pays no heed to outward show,
And though his mistress homely be
Still finds in her the perfect she.

Quench thy fire, linkman Love,
'Tis not right on one to turn,
Either now thy torch remove
Or make two hearts burn.

The poet, victor over words,
Coy wayward things,
Deems he can snare the stars, those gold-plumed birds,
Because he sings!

He dreams of endless conquest, he —
While others plod
He must win thunder-music from the sea,
Epics from God.

The fragrance of the lips of June
In sunlit dales
His song must steal. The slender white-breast moon
His hand unveils.

Because one hour of mortal breath
He makes sublime,
His fond heart dreams of victory over death

" Fly from Love" — 'Tis useless pain;
Love has wings.
" Drive him from you" — All in vain;
Like a wasp he comes again,
And he stings.

Once Love was plain before me, for at night,
Sleeping, my eyes were sundered, and, awake,
Like some sweet moon reflected in a lake,
Surrounded with a silver stream of light,
I saw my lady's presence flame in sight,
And, after, came a sense of roses cast
In soft encompassing luxuriance fast
Over my silent body, and a bright
And strange unveiling of the spirit's form
And immortality made visible:
And death and sin and feebleness and hell,
Being black, shone white beneath the fragrant storm
Of snows that clothed her body sweet and warm,

O cruel Love, how fierce the fire
That burns my fluttering heart;
Burn not too often, lest desire
A runaway depart.

If I may not see thee much,
Sweet at least it is to touch
Hand and hand;
Sweet at least it is to know
That a heart can understand
And that sympathy can grow.

If I may not win thee now,
I can worship thy pure brow
Where the hair
Coils so lovingly for crown —
Can rejoice to find thee fair,
And may win for thee renown.

That is much to do indeed:
If the world shall give its heed
As it goes
With swift footstep on its way,

I.

The flowers that as they fade fling parting kisses tender
From valley and hill and lea
Towards Autumn, know that Spring will mark fresh blossoms splendour;
But when Spring comes, love, I shall not have thee.

II.

The blue waves now along September gold shores gleaming
Will change to an angry sea;
But when the next Spring's ocean smiles, with eyes love-dreaming,
It will not smile on thee.

III.

Thou art gone! thou art gone! thou art gone! — And I, I may not follow!
When with swift wings and glee

When viewing those who're passing by,
Unmov'd you others see,
But sudden still withdraw your eye,
If chance it fall on me.

What shall I think? Can I or be
Object of love or hate?
From this suspence, ah! set me free,
And quickly tell my fate.

Of earthly bliss what most I wish to find
Is the affection of a kindred mind,
From fair to fair still ceaseless turns my breast,
And seeks a love in which at last to rest.
I boast not fortune's gifts, as little claim
I boast not fortune's gifts, as little claim
The splendour of a long-descended name;
I only boast a heart with passion mov'd,
That, loving, likewise merits to be lov'd.
Say, Delia, say, could you for me forgo
Of wealth the pleasure, and the pomp of show
These willingly resign, content to prove