love poetry

Already the soft dawn — and sleepless on the threshold Damis breathes out what little life is left him, for he looked at Heraclitus and under the rays of those eyes he was as wax upon hot charcoal.
Most unhappy Damis, rise up and I who have also a wound from Love will mingle my tears with yours.

O thou that singst so sweet a song
Born of the joyousness of strife,
When thou sayst that, wert never wrong-
Er in thy life.

The bard who loves a thousand things
Can give himself to lofty rhyme;
He has, to smite the lyric strings,
A lot of time.

But, loveliest of the laureates,
As to thyself is surely known,
No time hath he who concentrates

Life's an iridescent bubble.
Love's another name for trouble.
Fact and fiction
Bring conviction
Love is prose and pain.
But it's just as true that sorrow
Here to-day is gone to-morrow.
After showers
Follow flowers —
Sunshine after rain.

At the end of every love-tale
Howsoe'er begun,
Everything will turtle-dovetail
When the story's done.

This the moral we've been learning:
Long the lane that has no turning.
Every story
Amatory
Proves the proverb true.

Aphrodite denied that Love was her child when she saw Antiochus, another Love among the young men. Cherish this new love, O young man, for this boy is a Love greater than Eros.

How many of thy Captives (Love) complaine
Thou yoak'st thy slaves in too severe a chaine?
I 'have heard 'em their Poetique malice shew,
To curse thy Quiver, and blaspheme thy bow.
Calling thee boy, and blind; threatning the rod;
Prophanely swearing that thou art no God.
Or if thou be; not from the starry place;
But born below, and of the Stygian race.
But yet these Atheists that thy shafts dislike,
Thou canst be freindly to, and daigne to strike.
This on his Cloris spends his thoughts and time;

Eros, pity my entreating Muse and lull my sleepless yearning for Heliodorus. Now by your bow! your bow which does not harm others, but scatters winged arrows against me — if you kill me I will have these words written on my tomb:
" Friend, see the blood-guiltiness of Eros! "

Delay ? Alas there cannot be
To Love a greater Tyrannie:
Those cruel Beauties that have slain
Their Votaries by their disdain,
Or studied torments, sharp and witty,
Will be recorded for their pitty,
And after-ages be misled
To think them kind, when this is spred.
Of deaths the speediest is despair,
Delayes the slowest tortures are;
Thy cruelty at once destroyes,
But Expectation starves my Joyes.
Time and Delay , may bring me past
The power of Love to cure, at last;

O locust, beguiler of my desires, giver of sleep, Muse of the corn-lands with shrill-sounding wings, nature's mimic of the lyre, sing for me some well-loved song, O locust, beating your strident wings with your legs, to deliver me from the pains of sleepless thought, O locust, singer of the music which soothes love!
In the morning I will give you a fresh leek and drops of dew which you shall drink from my lips.

Ever the echo of Love sounds in my ears; in silence my eye sheds a tear to Desire; neither night nor day assuages me. Already through love-spells an impress is marked on my heart.
O winged Loves, do you know so well how to fly to me and yet not how to fly away?

SHAR Q I

To whom that wine-red ruby's shown
Is captive by those locks o'erthrown;
'Tis meet like nightingale I moan:
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.

Unmatched yon maid with waist so spare,
Unrivaled too her wanton air;
Her ways than e'en herself more fair:
A lovely Scio Rose is blown.

The roses like her cheeks are few;
That rose — blush-pink its darling hue;
This summer ere the roses blew,