love poetry

O God, when I kneel down to pray
Heed only then the words I say
And do not listen to my heart
Which mutters to itself apart.
I say, " God bless my enemies. "
Then take my word and bless them, please;
Be deaf to that fierce self which still
Murmurs, " But ah! I wish them ill! "

I say, " Dear God, Thy will is best, "
But loud and angry in my breast
This untamed heart is crying, " Nay,
" Not Thine, but mine; I want my way. "
Two selves that struggle — one loves sin,

Phaebus of all the Gods I wish to be;
Not of the world to have the overseeing:
For of all things in the world's circuit being,
One only thing I always wish to see.
Not of all herbs the hidden force to know,
For ah! my wound by herbs cannot be cured:
Not in the sky to have a place assured,
For my ambition lies on earth below;
Not to be prince of the celestial quire,
For I one nymph prize more than all the Muses:
Not with his bow to offer love abuses,
For I Love's vassal am, and dread his ire:

While love in you did live, I only lived in you;
While you for me did burn, for you alone I burned;
While you did sigh for me, for you I sighed and mourned;
Till you proved false to me, to you I was most true.
But since love died in you, in you I live no more,
Your heart a servant new, mine a new saint enjoyeth:
My sight offends your eyes, mine eyes your sight annoyeth:
Since you held me in scorn, by you I set no store.
Yet if dead love [revive], if your late flames return,
If you lament your change, and count me your sole treasure,

What is Love? Is Love in this,
That flies between us, in a kiss?
Nay, what is Love? Is Love the zest,
That wakes, when I unloose my breast?
But what is Love? Say now: who knows,
Or where he lurks, or how he shows? The Answer:

Dearest, Truth is stern, I fear:
Love, as yet, can scarce be here.

Love is poor; nay, Love is sorry;
Tears, not kisses, chiefly stay him:
His sad weeds best tell his story;
Vain delights befool, bewray him.

'Tis Nature's garden, that she made
For Love and noble Thought;
A wonder of green boughs and shade,
Through which a stream she brought,
With bubbling wells to cool the glade.

It were a place, if any were,
To tell the sacred sheaves
Of garnered joys, within this fair,
This quiet church of leaves,
Unto the calm, the patient air.

But Love, and Life, and holy Song,
Already fade, and lose
Their early zest; and soonest wrong
That, which we most would choose;
And mingle with the common throng.

Dearest, thy discourses steal
From my bosom's deep, my heart
How can I from thee conceal
My delight, my sorrow's smart?

Dearest, when I hear thy lyre
From its chains my soul is free.
To the holy angel quire
From the earth, O let us flee!

Dearest, how thy music's charms
Waft me dancing through the sky!
Let me round thee clasp my arms,
Lest in glory I should die!

Dearest, sunny wreaths I wear,
Twined around me by thy lay.
For thy garlands, rich and rare,

Alone! alone!
Forth out of the darkness,
Back into the darkness,
We come and we go alone.

O birth! O death!
Lone cry from the midnight,
Moan lost in the midnight,
A catch and a lapse of breath!

O youth! fleet dream!
We sleep out of heaven,
We dream down from heaven,
Then wake from the fleeting dream.

No more! no more!
Youth's gladness of living,
Love's madness of living,
Can come back to me no more.

Those glad, mad years!
How, dancing and singing,

1

She is all sweetness. Her long fingers seem
Pencils of silver, and so beautiful
Her presence, that she breathes of heaven and love.

2

Rudabeh smil'd; and all the scene was love.
Gracious their clasping hands together twine,
By love inflam'd, devoted to his shrine.
Now they descend, and to the palace move,
Attended by the slave who knew their love.
The gay illuminations gild the scene;
All was elysium, splendid, yet serene!
Zal more amaz'd, all glowing with desire,

G AZEL

He who poverty electeth, hall and fane desireth not;
Than the food of woe aught other bread to gain desireth not.
He who, king-like, on the throne of blest contentment sits aloft,
O'er the Seven Climes as Sultan high to reign desireth not.
He, who in his bosom strikes his nails, and opes the wound afresh,
On the garden looks not, sight of rosy lane desireth not.
He, who is of Love's true subjects, bideth in the fair one's ward,
Wand'ring there distracted, mountain lone or plain desireth not.

LOVE ILL-REQUITED .

Such love as woman never won
Was, Lesbia! mine for thee;
Such truth as never league had known
Thy love had found in me!

My heart, by falseness now repelled,
Yet vain with passion strives;
Turn honest, yet esteem were killed,
Be vile, yet love survives!