If social manners, if the gentlest mind,
If zeal for God, and love for human kind,
If all the charities which life endear,
May claim affection, or demand a tear,
Then, o'er Penrose's venerable urn
Domestic love may weep, and friendship mourn.

The path of duty still, untired, he trod,
He walk'd in safety, for he walk'd with God!
When past the power of precept and of prayer
Yet still his flock remain'd the shepherd's care;
Their wants still kindly watchful to supply,
He taught his best, last lesson, how to die?

On The Death of Edward Forbes

Nature, a jealous mistress, laid him low.
He woo'd and won her; and, by love made bold,
She showed him more than mortal man should know,
Then slew him lest her secret should be told.

An old willow with hollow branches
slowly swayed his few high gright tendrils
and sang:

Love is a young green willow
shimmering at the bare wood's edge.

At the end of my labour
A familiar voice consoles me in intimate whispers:
Don't worry, honey, you haven't erred
In this public celebration of our love.
The great monuments to love like the Taj Mahal,
Transformed private emotions into social ritual.
No grand passion can be contained
Within secret diaries or letters
But must spill out sooner or later into the open.
Love, like money, must be shared,
Not hoarded: so it can multiply.
To broadcast love, therefore, is no crime.
But beware of making it an act

Che son contenti nel fuoco

We are of those that Dante saw
Glad, for love's sake, among the flames of hell,
Outdaring with a kiss all-powerful wrath;
For we have passed athwart a fiercer hell,
Through gloomier, more desperate circles
Than ever Dante dreamed:
And yet love kept us glad.

If I have studied here in part
A tale as old as maiden's heart,
'Tis that I do see herein
Shadow of more piteous sin.

She, that but giving part, not whole,
Took even the part back, is the Soul:
And that so disdain-ed Lover--
Best unthought, since Love is over.

Love to invite, desire, and fear,
And Love's exactions cost too dear
Count for Love's possession,--ah,
Thy way, misera Anima!

To give the pledge, and yet be pined
That a pledge should have force to bind,
This, O Soul, too often still

Another Leonora once inspir'd
Tasso, with fatal love to frenzy fir'd,
But how much happier, liv'd he now, were he,
Pierced with whatever pangs for love of Thee!
Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,
With Adriana's lute of sound divine,
Fiercer than Pentheus' tho' his eye might roll,
Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,
You still, with medicinal sounds, might cheer
His senses wandering in a blind career;
And sweetly breathing thro' his wounded breast,
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.

Prince, show me the quickest way and best
To gain the subject of my moan;
We've neither spinsters nor relics out West--
These do I love, and these alone.

O LOVE, let us part now!
Ours is the tremulous, low-spoken vow,
Ours is the spell of meeting hands and eyes.
The first, involuntary, sacred kiss
Still on our lips in benediction lies.
O Love, be wise!
Love at its best is worth no more than this--
Let us part now!


O Love, let us part now!
Ere yet the roses wither on my brow,
Ere yet the lilies wither in your breast,
Ere the implacable hour shall flower to bear
The seeds of deathless anguish and unrest.
To part is best.

A year ago, you swore, fond she!
'To love, to honour,' and so forth:
Such was the vow you pledged to me,
And here's exactly what 'tis worth.