Wounded with loue, and piercing deep desire
Of your faire face, I left my natiue land,
With Russia snow to slacke mine English fire,
But well I see, no cold can quench the brand
That Cupides coles enkindle in the brest,
Frost hath no force where friendship is possest.
The Ocean sea for all his fearefull flood,
The perils great of passage not preuaile,
To banish loue the riuers do no good,
The mountains hie cause Cupid not to quaile,
Wight are his wings, and fansie flies as fast
As any ship, for all his sailes and mast.

Within the covert of a shady grove
We saw the little red-cheek'd god of Love:
He had nor bow nor quiver: these among
The neighboring trees upon a bow were hung.
Upon a bank of tender rosebuds laid,
He smiling slept; bees with their noise invade
His rest, and on his lips their honey made.

"The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true love,
In cold grave she was lain.

"I'll do as much for my true love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth, and a day."

The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak,
"Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?"

" 'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave
And will not let you sleep,
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips
And that is all I seek."

Why from the danger did mine eyes not start, —
Why not become even blind, — ere through my sight
Within my soul thou ever couldst alight
To say: " Dost thou not hear me in thy heart?"
New torment then, the old torment's counterpart,
Filled me at once with such a sore affright,
That, Lady, lady, (I said,) destroy not quite
Mine eyes and me! O help us where thou art!
Thou hast so left mine eyes, that Love is fain —
Even Love himself — with pity uncontroll'd
To bend above them, weeping for their loss:

Why do we love these things which we call women,
Which are like feathers blown with every wind,
Regarding least those which do most esteem them,
And most deceitful when they seem most kind;
And all the virtue that their beauty graces,
It is but painted like unto their faces?

Their greatest glory is in rich attire,
Which is extracted from some hopeful livers
Whose wits and wealth are bent to their desire,
When they regard the gift more than the givers;
And to increase their hopes of future bliss,

I
Whoso in love would bear the bell,
Needs must he prank him gallantly,
Swagger and ruffle it, bold and snell,
And when to his lady's sight comes he,
Don cloth of gold and embroidery;
For ladies liken a goodly show.
This should serve well; but, by Marie,
Not all can nick it that will, heigho!
II

Once on a season in love I fell
With a lady gracious and sweet to see,
Who spoke me fair, that she liked me well
And gladly would hearken to my plea,
But first I must give to her for fee
Fifty gold crowns, not less nor mo'.

The white-rose garland at her feet,
— The crown of laurel at her head,
Her noble life on earth complete,
— Lay her in the last low bed
For the slumber calm and deep:
" He giveth His beloved sleep. "

Soldiers find their fittest grave
— In the field whereon they died;
So her spirit pure and brave
— Leaves the clay it glorified
To the land for which she fought
With such grand impassioned thought.

Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome,
— She in well-loved Tuscan earth;
Finding all their death's long home

Wenn ich in deine Augen seh'

Whene'er I look into your eyes
Then all my grief and sorrow flies;
And when I kiss your mouth, oh then
I am made well and strong again.

And when I lean upon your breast
My soul is soothed with godlike rest;
But when you swear, " I love but thee! "
Then I must weep — and bitterly.

When you are very old, at evening
You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,
Humming my songs, "Ah well, ah well-a-day.
When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing."
None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,
Albeit with her weary task foredone,
But wakens at my name, and calls you one
Blest, to be held in long remembering.

I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid
On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,
While you beside the fire, a grandame gray,
My love, your pride, remember and regret;
Ah, love me, love, we may be happy yet,

Wenn zwei von einander scheiden

When two who love are parted,
They talk, as friend to friend,
Clasp hands and weep a little,
And sigh without an end.

We did not weep, my darling,
Nor sigh " Why must this be . . . "
The tears, the sighs, the anguish
Came later — and to me.