love poetry

In mount or vale, throughout the changeful year,
From all the by-ways of the world, I peer
Into the secret places where they wind
Almost beyond the utmost reach of mind,
And beauty, beauty everywhere I find.

" O why, " I asked, " doth Nature in such wealth
Lavish her jewels, hide them as by stealth,
The wondrous treasures of her artist soul
In opulence outpour, and o'er the whole
Great wilderness of worlds her splendours roll? "

From jungles only to the wild things known,

The choral pines to the wild winds are singing,
A weird Æolian strain,
Aloft their green imperial branches swinging
In sunshine, dark and rain,
Through all the patient centuries outflinging
Their litanies of pain.

Stern atmospheres and lashing storms enfold them
And robes of ancient night;
The rock-sills of the solid planet hold them
And swing them to the light;
They whisper dreams — the dreams the mountains told them,
The great peaks tipped with white.

Dreams of the story of their own creation —

HE ANSWERS AGAIN

I KNOW you love me still, for all the blue
And ardent glances of your tender eyes
Can never feign, or you would not be you;
And yet in your high heart you do despise
The thing I did, and swift resentments rise
That I, unto myself was so untrue,
That I could stain the perfect love I knew,
That I could so defile my life's set prize!
You love me, yes, and yet you hate the sin
Against our love's convincing purity;
I mourn with you for what I might have been,
High priest of loyal Love's security —

HE ANSWERS

You , who have suffered much because I failed,
This bitter anguish you can never know —
To see in eyes you love the utter woe
Of one whose heart unto a cross is nailed.
Must those dear eyes forever be half veiled
As though afraid to meet the cruel blow
Of disillusion? Ah! how faint their glow —
Poor, martyred spirits by their love impaled.
Beloved, I would give my days to this,
Could I but render back the joy you miss,
And lift the load I laid, the deep distress.

SCENE SECOND. — Another P ART OF THE F OREST .

Enter L EFROY , carrying his rifle, and examining a knot of wild flowers .

L EFROY . This region is as lavish of its flowers
As Heaven of its primrose blooms by night.
This is the Arum which within its root
Folds life and death; and this the Prince's Pine,
Fadeless as love and truth — the fairest form
That ever sun-shower washed with sudden rain.
This golden cradle is the Moccasin Flower,
Wherein the Indian hunter sees his hound;

The wall is without a rampart. Because it holds no water,
the moat has calves grazing and frisking in it. So the city
stands. Her father does not think about this, since he
is deluded. And her brothers—Killi of the swift horses
who wears a chaplet lovely to look at
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

No w may we range next to the Ranke of loue
Other Affections , and to doe it right
We must place Favoure there, by which w' approve
Of some thing wherein we conceave delight,
For that it 's good in deede or so in sight:
Herein Loue's obligation doth commence;
Yet favoure may haue force where loue lacks might ,
But without Favoure, Loue is a non ENS ,
For, Favoure waites vpon Love's excellence.

Then Reverence with Favour we may Ranke ,
Bredd by comparing some high Dignitie
With some inferior State (that Fortune sanck)

ACT V.

SCENE I. The same .

Enter HOLOFERNES , SIR NATHANIEL , and DULL .

Hol. Satis quod sufficit.
Nath. I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious: pleasant without scurrility, witty, without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king's, who is intituled, nominated or called, Don Adriano de Armado.

ACT IV.

Scene I. The same .

Enter the Princess, and her train, a Forester, BOYET , ROSALINE , MARIA , and KATHARINE .

Prin. Was that the king, that spurr'd his horse so hard
Against the steep uprising of the hill?
Boyet. I know not; but I think it was not he.
Prin. Whoe'er a was, a' show'd a mounting mind.
Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch:
On Saturday we will return to France.
Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush
That we must stand and play the murderer in?

ACT III.

Scene I. The same .

Enter ARMADO and MOTH .

Arm. Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.
Moth. Concolinel.
Arm. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither: I must employ him in a letter to my love.
Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl?
Arm. How meanest thou? brawling in French?