love poetry

Cease, anxious World, your fruitless pain
To grasp forbidden store;
Your studied labors shall prove vain,
Your alchemy unblest,
Whilst seeds of far more precious ore
Are ripened in my breast.

My breast, the forge of happier love,
Where my Lucinda lives;
And the rich stock does so improve
As she her art employs,
That every smile and touch she gives
Turns all to golden joys.

Since then we can such treasures raise,
Let's no expense refuse;
In love let's lay out all our days —

Tell me no more you love; in vain,
Fair Celia, you this passion feign.
Can those pretend to love that do
Refuse what Love persuades us to?
Who once has felt his active flame,
Dull laws of Honor does disdain.
You would be thought his slave, and yet
You will not to his power submit.
More cruel then those beauties are
Whose coyness wounds us with despair:
For all the kindness which you show,
Each smile and kiss which you bestow,
Are like those cordials which we give
To dying men, to make them live,

To little or no purpose I spent many days,
In ranging the Park, the Exchange, and the Plays;
For ne'er in my rambles till now did I prove
So lucky to meet with the man I could love.
Oh! how I am pleased when I think on this man,
That I find I must love, let me do what I can!

How long I shall love him, I can no more tell,
Than had I a fever when I should be well.
My passion shall kill me before I will show it,
And yet I would give all the world he did know it;
But oh how I sigh when I think should he woo me,

I saw her roll by in her carriage,
Lolling there in luxurious pride;
She has grown very fine since her marriage,
Though her husband, just then glancing up, he
Didn't seem at all pleased with his bride.

In fact, he looked angry and jealous;
She was fondling a pug at her chin,
With kisses, affectionate, zealous —
Bah! a woman so fond of a puppy
Is ugly, though charming as sin!

Just then I espied on the crossing
A poorly dressed woman and plain,
Caressingly dandling and tossing,

An hour ago I saw Thee ride in gold
Along the burning highways of the skies;
And now — Thou comest with soft and suppliant eyes,
And fearing lest Thy love seem overbold.

In this dear garden set with flower and tree,
My soul, a maiden whom a great king woos,
Stands thrilled and silent — Lord, what can she choose,
Dumbfounded by Thy strange humility?

Since Thou wilt have it so, my Lord, I bare
In love and shamefastness my soul — Thy soul —
So lay Thy tender hand, an aureole,

I

I WALKED with giants once upon the height
For that one look you gave me one May night.

Comrade of theirs was I as bold as strong
For that one note I dreamed into your song.

By none could I be worsted or o'erthrown,
Feeling your hands a moment in my own.

II

Now must I face my giants one by one —
I who but dreamed a dream and wake alone —
Love, Joy, and High Ambition and Delight.

You asked me yesterday what moment seemed
Most beautiful of all our love-hours sweet;
— Beloved, it was when kneeling at your feet
One summer's eve, you looked at me and smiled,
While in your cherished face there softly gleamed
The tenderness of a mother for her child.

I AM inebriate with the sunlight's golden wine,
And I would love with an insensate fury!

Let me drain beauty even unto death!
Bring me a languid woman, perfumed, young,
Her dusky body hung with dazzling gems
And strange, exotic iridescent stuffs —
Her wanton eyes like thirsty summer moons.

Oh, I would love with an insensate fury!
Bring me a pale flower-boy,
White-limbed like a young heifer in a field,
His lips a-quiver with unknown desire. . . .
His soft throat virgin beneath my kiss,

Pray you, my master, let me keep my dream.
Of all sweet things have I not been bereft —
Of very youth, of very happiness?
Why should you covet this one fairing left?
Nay, grant me this. What slave could ask for less?
Pray you, my master, let me keep my dream.

Pray you, my master, leave to me this thing,
I, who was rich one day, to-day am poor
Beyond men's envying, save but for this,
This dream for whose glad sake I still endure;
All else you filched in that one Judas kiss.

I thought Love dead,
And saw him borne away,
One April day,
Unto a quiet mound,
And lying by his side I wound
A garland of white roses fair
In his hair,
And lilies sweet
For peace, I placed about his feet,
An ivy chaplet for his head;
I thought Love dead.

I thought Love dead,
And sang his requiem in tears
For many years.
All knew my pain and said:
" Yea. Love is dead! "

I thought Love dead;
One night I sought his lonely bier,
There were strange wind-songs near,