love poetry

Unto you, most froward, this letter I write
Which hath caused me so longe in despaire.
The goodlinesse of your persone is esye to endite,
For he leveth nat that can youre persone appaire,
So comly best shapen, of feture most faire,
Most fresh of contenaunce, even as an owle
Is best and most favored of ony oder fowle.

Youre manly visage, shortly to declare,
Your forehed, mouth and nose so flatte,
In short conclusion best likened to an hare,
Of alle living thinges, save only a catte.
More wold I sey if I wist what.

Vnhappy youth betrayd by Fate
To such a Love hath Sainted Hate ,
And damned those Caelestiall bands
Are onely knit with equal hands;
The Love of Great Ones? 'Tis a Love
Gods are incapable to prove;
For where there is a Joy uneven,
There never, never can be Heav'n:
'Tis such a Love as is not sent
To Fiends as yet for punishment;
Ixion willingly doth feele
The Gyre of his eternal wheele,
Nor would he now exchange his paine
For Cloudes and Goddesses againe.

Underneath this Marble Stone,
Lie two Beauties join'd in one.

Two whose Loves Death could not sever,
For both liv'd, both dy'd together.

Two whose Souls, b'ing too divine
For Earth, in their own Sphere now shine.

Who have left their Loves to Fame,
And their Earth to Earth again.

I will bring you big things:
Colors of dawn-morning,
Beauty of rose leaves,
And a flaming love.

But you say
Those are not big things,
That only money counts.

Well,
Then I will bring you money.
But do not ask me
For the beauty of rose leaves,
Nor the colors of dawn-morning,
Nor a flaming love.

If I should sing
All of my songs for you
And you would not listen to them,
If I should build
All of my dream houses for you
And you would never live in them,
If I should give
All of my hopes to you
And you would laugh and say: I do not care,
Still I would give you my love
Which is more than my songs,
More than any houses of dreams,
Or dreams of houses —
I would still give you my love
Though you never looked at me.

(When Young Spring Comes)
When young spring comes,
With silver rain
One almost
Could be good again.

But then comes summer,
Whir of bees . . .
Crimson poppies . . . anemones;
The old, old god of Love
To please.

Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapelesse flame,
Angells affect us oft, and worship'd bee;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soule, whose child love is,
Takes limmes of flesh, and else could nothing doe.
More subtile than the parent is,

Love must not be, but take a body too,
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love aske, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,

'Twas over hills and over dales
Through lonesome woods and valleys
When my true love was sent from me
All out of spite and malice.

I went unto my true love's house
Inquiring for my dearest,
But the answer that was give to me,
" I have no daughter near me."

But hearing of her true love's voice
She looked out of the window,
Saying, " I can't be in your sweet company
For locks and bolts doth prevent me."

The locks he broke in pieces three
And the door he split asunder.

I love a careless streamlet,
That takes a mad-cap leap,
And like a sparkling beamlet
Goes dashing down the steep.

Like torrents of the mountain
We've coursed along the lea,
From many a crystal fountain
Toward the far-distant sea.

And now we've gained life's valley,
And through the lowlands roam,
No longer may'st thou dally,
No longer spout and foam.

May pleasant meads await thee,
Where thou may'st freely roll
Towards that bright heavenly sea,
Thy resting place and goal.

To ask for all thy love and thy whole heart,
'Twere madness.
I do not sue, nor can admit,
Fairest, from you to have all yet:
Who giveth all hath nothing to impart
But sadness.

He that receiveth all, can have no more
Than seeing.
My love by length of every hour
Gathers new strength, new growth, new flower;
You must have daily new rewards in store,
Still being.

You cannot every day give me your heart
For merit:
Yet, if you will, when yours doth go
You shall have still one to bestow;