O love! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts,
Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits;
A player, masquerading many parts
In life's odd carnival;—a boy that shoots,
From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts;
A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots;
The Puck of Passion—partly false—part real—
A marriageable maiden's “beau ideal.”

O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,
Making green misses spoil their work at school;
A melancholy man, cross-gartering?
Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool?

XXII

Love and Fortune and my mind, rememb'rer
Of that that is now with that that hath been,
Do torment me so that I very often
Envy them beyond all measure.
Love slayeth mine heart. Fortune is depriver
Of all my comfort. The foolish mind then
Burneth and plaineth as one that seldom
Liveth in rest, still in displeasure.
My pleasant days, they fleet away and pass,
But daily yet the ill doth change into the worse,
And more than the half is run of my course.
Alas, not of steel but of brickle glass
I see that from mine hand falleth my trust,

Forgetting God
To love a king
Hath been my rod
Or else nothing,

In this frail life,
Being a blast
Of care and strife
Till it be past.

Yet God did call
Me in my pride,
Lest I should fall
And from Him slide.

For whom loves He
And not correct,
That they may be
Of His elect?

Then, Death, haste thee.
Thou shalt me gain
Immortally
With Him to reign;

Who send the king
Like years as Noye
In governing
His realm in joy;

And after this
Frail life, such grace
As in His bliss

Dear, why do you say you love,
When indeed you careless prove,
Reason better can digest
Earnest hate, than love in rest.

Wherefore do your smiling eyes
Help your tongue to make sweet lies?
Leave to statesmen tricks of state,
Love doth politicians hate.

You perchance presume to find
Love of some chameleon kind;
But be not deceiv'd my fair,
Love will not be fed on air.

Love's a glutton of his food,
Surfeits make its stomach good,
Love whose diet grows precise,
Sick from some consumption dies.

Then, dear love, let me obtain

Only a Flower! but, then, it grew
On the green mountains which en-ring
Kana-el-Jelîl; looking to
The village, and the little Spring!

The Love which did those bridals bless
Ever and ever on you shine!
Make happier all your happiness,
And turn its water into wine!

False Love, too long thou hast delayed,
Too late I make my choice;
Yet win for me that precious maid,
And bid my heart rejoice,
Then shall mine eyes shoot youthful fire,
My cheek with triumph glow,
And other maids that glance desire,
Which I on one bestow.

Make her with smile divinely bland
Beam sunshine o'er my face,
And Time shall touch with gentlest hand
What she hath deigned to grace;
O'er scanty locks full wreaths I'll wear;
No wrinkled brow to shade,
For joy will smooth the furrows there,
Which earlier griefs have made.

This yearning heart (Love! witness what I say)
Enshrines thy form as purely as it may,
Round which, as to some spirit uttering bliss,
My thoughts all stand ministrant night and day
Like saintly Priests, that dare not think amiss.

Down by the sea, where the cliff is high,
There, where the oleanders blow,
We walked at evening, you and I,
Speech was eager, and steps were slow;
You were my love,—and I told you so

Doubt came down like a breath that blew
Straight from the far horizon snow:
Eyes reproachfully turning, you,—
“Men are ever alike, I know;—
To mistrust that I love,—when I told you so!”

It is over now, and I might have known,
From the very first, how the day must go:—
He was the better man, I'll own:—
So I spoke once more, and your Yes was No;

O! darkly fair!—yet beautifully bright,
I know not how to call thee, sweet unknown!
Whether a Tropic Day or Arctic Night
Or the soft Twilight of a temperate Zone.

Although I have but seen thee from afar,
And haply never may behold thee near,
Let me adore thee as a lovely star,
Altho' my words may never reach thine ear!

No hopeless ship-wrecked mariner could watch
Through dim, death-glazing eyes for morning's ray,
More eagerly, than I have striv'n to catch
That movement of thy lattice, once a day!

Nor always once!—day after day has past

Let not the jesting bitter gods
Who sit so goldenly aloof from us
Mock us too deeply,
Let them not boast they hold alone
The reins of pleasure, the delight of lust—
We also, we that are but air and dust,
Moistening that dust a little with old wine
And kindling that air with fire of love
Have burned an hour or two with blossoming pangs,
And, leaning on soft breasts made keen with love
And murmuring fierce words of rending bliss,
Have gathered turn by turn unto our lips
The twin wild roses of delight,
The quick flower-flames that sear into the soul