love poetry

Sufficeth it to you, my joys interred,
In simple words that I my woes complain,
You that then died when first my fancy erred,
Joys under dust that never live again?

If to the living were my muse addressed
Or did my mind her own spirit still inhold,
Were not my living passion so repressed
As to the dead the dead did these unfold,

Some sweeter words, some more becoming verse
Should witness my mishap in higher kind;
But my love's wounds, my fancy in the hearse,
The idea but resting of a wasted mind,

PROLOGUE

S ELF-LOVE , which never rightly understood,
Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,
And malice, in all critics, reigns so high,
That for small errors they whole plays decry;
So that to see this fondness, and that spite,
You 'd think that none but madmen judge or write.
Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit
T' impose upon you what he writes for wit;
So hopes, that leaving you your censures free,
You equal judges of the whole will be:

One-sided love:
Even I hate
this sorry self of mine —
so hate me,
and I'll know we share
at least that emotion

I

The man stood silent, peering past
His utmost verge of memory.
What lay beyond, beyond that vast
Bewildering darkness and dead sea
Of noisome vapors and dread night?
No light! not any sense of light
Beyond that life when Love was born
On that first, far, dim rim of morn:
No light beyond that beast that clung
In darkness by the light of love
And died to save her young.
And yet we know life must have been
Before that dark, dread life of pain;

I

What is there in a dear dove's eyes,
Or voice of mated melodies,
That tells us ever of blue skies
And cease of deluge on Love's seas?
The dove looked down on Jordan's tide
Well pleased with Christ the Crucified;
The dove was hewed in Karnak stone
Before fair Jordan's banks were known.
The dove has such a patient look,
I read rest in her pretty eyes
As in the Holy Book.

I think if I should love some day —
And may I die when dear Love dies —

" And God said, Let there be light. "

Rise up! How brief this little day?
We can but kindle some dim light
Here in the darkened, wooded way
Before the gathering of night.
Come, let us kindle it. The dawn
Shall find us tenting farther on.
Come, let us kindle ere we go —
We know not where; but this we know,
Night cometh on, and man needs light.
Come! camp-fire embers, ere we grope
Yon gray archway of night.

Life is so brief, so very brief,
So rounded in, we scarce can see

Let sordid mortals toil all day,
For gold and silver search and dig;
A greater treasure I enjoy
In this, my charming talking pig.

Though mighty monarchs on their thrones
In pride and state look fierce and big,
They are not so content and blessed
As is old Tony with his pig.

I neither care who's in or out,
Whether Tory, whether Whig,
I love my country, King and Queen,
But best of all I love my pig.

Love! in what poyson is thy Dart
Dipt, when it makes a bleeding heart?
None know, but they who feel the smart.

It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal eyes (we find)
Dazle the Opticks of our Mind . . .

How happy he that loves not, lives!
Him neither Hope nor Fear deceives,
To Fortune who no Hostage gives.

How unconcern'd in things to come!
If here uneasie, finds at Rome ,
At Paris , or Madrid his Home.

Secure from low, and private Ends,
His Life, his Zeal, his Wealth attends

I.

L O ve! in what Poison is thy Dart
Dipt, when it makes a bleeding Heart?
None know, but they who feel the Smart.

II.

It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal Eyes (we find)
Dazle the Opticks of our Mind.
III.

Love to our Cittadel resorts,
Through those deceitful Sally-ports,
Our Sentinels betray our Forts.

IV.

What subtile Withcraft Man constrains,
To change his Pleasure into Pains,
And all his Freedom into Chains?

V.

" Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake; "
Upon the waters is my light canoe;
Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make
A music on the parting wave for you, —
Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue;
Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung,
Come with me, love, for Oh, my love is true! "
This is the song that on the lake was sung,
The boatman sang it over when his heart was young.

XXXIV

The boatman's song is hushed; the night is still,