Merciless Love, whom nature hath denied
The use of eyes, lest thou shouldst take a pride
And glory in thy murthers:
Why am I

That never yet transgress'd thy deity,
Never broke vow, from whose eyes never
Flew disdainful dart,
Whose hard heart none e'er slew,
Thus ill rewarded?

Thou art young and fair,
Thy Mother soft and gentle as the air,
Thy holy fire still burning, blown with prayer.
Then, everlasting Love, restrain thy will,
'Tis god-like to have power, but not to kill.

When my love and I lie dead,
Both together on one bed,
Shall it first be truly said,
“Fate was kindly; they are wed!”

When they come the shroud to make
Some sweet soul shall say, “Awake
From your long white sleep, and take
Feast of kisses for love's sake.”

And though we nor see nor hear—
Safe from sorrow—safe from fear,
Both together on one bier,
We shall feel each other near.

Oh my lover, oh my friend,
This I know will be the end—
Only when our ashes blend
Will our heavy fortunes mend.

In December the stubble nearly is
Most loved of things.
The rooks as in the dark trees are its friends
And make part of it . . .

Now when the hills shine far
And light and set off
That darkness, all my heart cries angrily
That music to fashion

For if not so, one must go
To the stubble every day
For comfort against such emptiness
As lost treasures make.

Cruelly scare the choughs from
Fallows and trees alike—
Though dim in love, or bright far
With the hills heroically they ally.

I WOULD not have this perfect love of ours
Grow from a single root, a single stem,
Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers
That idly hide life's iron diadem:
It should grow alway like that Eastern tree
Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly;
That love for one, from which there doth not spring
Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing
Not in another world, as poets prate,
Dwell we apart above the tide of things,
High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings;
But our pure love doth ever elevate
Into a holy bond of brotherhood

When round the paths of boyhood fell the eternal
Pure light of morning, mixed with heaven's own gleams;
When heaven's own emeralds through the foliage vernal
Shone, heaven's own sapphires on the sunlit streams;

Then, in those days when all the world was fairer
Than ever again this sombre world will be;
Then, when the silver moon, love's standard-bearer,
Poured stainless light upon a sinless sea;

Then, in those days, I loved—and in strong fashion.
“Dream-love,” you say? But dream-love is sublime.
Ofttimes I think a boy's exalted passion

Away, sad voices, telling
Of old, forgotten pain!
My heart, at grief rebelling,
To joy returns again.
My life, at tears protesting,
To long delight returns,
Where, close of all my questing,
Her dear eyes love discerns.

O Love , O thou that, for my fealty,
Only in torment dost thy power employ,
Give me, for God's sake, something of thy joy,
That I may learn what good there is in thee.
Yea, for, if thou art glad with grieving me,
Surely my very life thou shalt destroy
When thou renew'st my pain, because the joy
Must then be wept for with the misery.
He that had never sense of good, nor sight,
Esteems his ill estate but natural,
Which so is lightlier borne: his case is mine.
But, if thou wouldst uplift me for a sign,
Bidding me drain the curse and know it all,

Guard thee, my friend, from grimmest devils' jaws,
More dangerous yet are angels softly smiling;
One such I knew, and she my heart beguiling,
Proffered sweet kiss—right soon I felt sharp claws—
Guard thee, my friend, from black old pussy's paws;
More dangerous yet are white young kittens mewing—
One such I took for Love, to my undoing—
My heart was torn to rags—my Love the cause—
Oh sweet beguiler! wondrous lovely maiden!
How could thine eyes of clearest blue deceive me?
Could thy soft paw of my heart's flesh bereave me?

Lightsome as convey'd by sparrows,
Love and Beauty cross'd the plains,
Flights of little pointed arrows
Love dispatch'd among the swains:
But so much our shepherds dread him,
(Spoiler of their peace profound)
Swift as scudding fawns they fled him,
Frighted, though they felt no wound.

Now the wanton God grown slyer,
And for each fond mischief ripe,
Comes disguis'd in Pan's attire,
Tuning sweet an oaten pipe:
Echo, by the winding river,
Doubles his delusive strains;
While the boy conceals his quiver,
From the slow returning swains.

I am lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,
Tho' I move within the gloom, love,
Breathe within the gloom!
Men deem life not fled, dear,
Deem my life not fled,
Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,
I with thee am dead,
O my little child!

What is the grey world, darling,
What is the grey world,
Where the worm lies curled, darling,
The death-worm lies curled?
They tell me of the spring, dear!
Do I want the spring?
Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,
O my little child!