R EMEMBERING this—how Love
Mocks me, and bids me hoard
Mine ill reward that keeps me nigh to death,—
How it doth still behove
I suffer the keen sword,
Whence undeplor'd I may not draw my breath
In memory of this thing
Sighing and sorrowing,
I am languid at the heart
For her to whom I bow,
Craving her pity now,
And who still turns apart.

I am dying, and through her—
This flower, from paradise
Sent in some wise, that I might have no rest.
Truly she did not err
To come before his eyes

Farewell, dear Love! since thou wilt needs be gone:
Mine eyes do show my life is almost done.
Nay, I never will die
So long as I can spy;
There be many moe
Though that she do go.
There be many moe, I fear not.
Why then, let her go, I care not.

Farewell, farewell! since this I find is true,
I will not spend more time in wooing you.
But I will seek elsewhere
If I may find her there.
Shall I bid her go?
What and if I do?
Shall I bid her go, and spare not?
Oh, no, no, no, no, I dare not.

Ten thousand times farewell! Yet stay awhile,

Sleepless
in the cold dark,
I look
through the closed dim
door be-
fore me, which be-
comes an
abyss into
which my
memories have
fallen
past laughter or
horror,
passion or hard
work—my
memories of
our past
laughter, horror,
passion,
hard work. An ache
of be-
ing. An ache of
being,
over love. An
ache of
being over
love. Like
projections on
the screen
of the heavy
window
curtains, flashing
lights of
a slow-scraping
after-
midnight snowplow
for a
moment pulse in
this room.

And could'st thou, youthful songstress, prove
The pangs, the bliss that wait on love;
While from that careless air of thine,
Thou seem'st to worship at the shrine
Of chill indiff'rence;—yet so well
You paint the boy, that sure his spell
The urchin round thy hearth did steal;
We best express what most we feel.

Was it sweet to have lived, I wonder,
In the days when the world was young?
When, parting the boughs in sunder,
In the forest the wood-nymph sung?
Was it sweet, in the woods' recesses,
To mark 'neath a moonlit sky
The glitter of Venus' tresses
As the queen and her train swept by?

She must have been grand and peerless,
Queen Venus, with Love in her train.
Then the eyes of the world were tearless:
Will they ever be tearless again?
Our woods and our groves are chilly,
The goddess is no more there:
'Mid our rocks and regions hilly

When love in the faint heart trembles,
And the eyes with tears are wet,
Oh, tell me what resembles
Thee, young Regret?
Violets with dewdrops drooping;
Lilies o'erfull of gold,
Roses in June rains stooping,
That weep for the cold,
Are like thee, young Regret.

Bloom, violets, lilies, and roses!
But what, young Desire,
Like thee, when love discloses
Thy heart of fire?
The wild swan unreturning,
The eagle alone with the sun,
The long-winged storm-gulls burning
Seaward when day is done,
Are like thee, young Desire.

Wearies my love of my letters?
Does she my silence command?
Sunders she Love's rosy fetters
As though they were woven of sand?
Tires she too of each token
Indited with many a sigh?
Are all her promises broken?
And must I love on till I die?

Thinks my dear love that I blame her
With what was a burden to part?
Ah, no!—with affection I'll name her
While lingers a pulse in my heart.
Although she has clouded with sadness:
And blighted the bloom of my years,
I love her still, even to madness,
And bless her through showers of tear.

Sweet hand! the sweet yet cruel bow thou art,
From whence at one, five ivory arrows fly,
So with five wounds at once I wounded lie
Bearing in breast the print of every dart.
Saint Francis had the like, yet felt no smart:
Where I in living torments never die,
His wounds were in his hands and feet where I
All these same helpless wounds feel in my heart.
Now as Saint Francis (if a saint) am I.
The bow which shot these shafts a relic is;
I mean the hand, which is the reason why
So many for devotion thee would kiss,
And I thy glove kiss as a thing divine;

Swear to me, said my love, that you are mine:
Bring yourself to me outside my door and wait:
My lovers have come in numbers but they go,
I call for love that asks for nothing and gives all.
I am tired of the debits and credits of love,
I am tired of the vows of lovers,
I leave you as free as I ask to be myself.
Swear to me, said my love, that love is not a bond:
Love's body is for love's body, that is all,
Love's soul is for love's soul, that is all.
I give all for all, I bargain for nothing less,
And as much as you confer just so much you take away.

I have found that love comes forth from customs issuing a challenge,
And love's challenge turns love loose upon you in vehement plenty,
And you go to your root and find love there before you,
And you go to your finished boughs and you find love there already arrived,
And you follow love out of all law and habit,
And you follow love out of all luxury and laxity,
And you go where love is free and pure, and you track love to the scene of its newday consummations
Once you thought love was only safe with the police at its door: