Sweeter than any name
Of power or blessing, of tumult or of calm,
The pride of any victory with its palm,
Sweeter than fame,
The love we bear to women in our youth,
When ardour cleaves to ardour, truth to truth;

When Beauty casts her sheaf
And flings its loaded treasure at our feet:
But bitter—bitter,—even as this is sweet,
The gathering grief
Of passionate love misplaced, or given in vain,
The love that bears no harvest save of pain.

Why so Coy, my lovely Maid?
Why of Age so much Afraid?
Your Cheeks, like Roses, to the Sight;
And my Hair, as Lillies white;
In Love's Garland, we'll suppose
Me the Lilly, you the Rose.

All that 's beautiful in woman,
All we in her nature love,
All that 's good in all that 's human,
Passed this gate to courts above.

Jesus, sweet is love of Thee
Nor may nothing so sweet be;
Nought that man may think or see
Can have sweetness near Thee.

Jesus, no song may be sweeter
Nor thought in heart blissfuller,
Nought may be felt lightsomer
Than Thou, so sweet a Lover!

Jesus, Thy love was us so free
That it from Heaven brought Thee:
For love full dear Thou boughtest me,
For love Thou hung on Roode-tree.

Jesus, for us Thou hung on Rood
For love Thou gave Thy hearte blood;
Love Thee made our soule's food
Thy love us brought to alle good.

If thou wert by my side, my love,
—How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
—Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
—My babies at my knee,
How gayly would our pinnace glide
—O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
—When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay
—And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
—My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
—I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,

Did I love thee? I only did desire
To hold thy body unto mine,
And smite it with strange fire
Of kisses burning as wine,
And catch thy odorous hair, and twine
It through my fingers amorously.
Did I love thee?

Did I love thee? I only did desire
To drink the perfume of thy blood
In vision, and thy senses tire
Seeing them shift from ebb to flood
In constant sweet interlude,
And if love such a thing not be,
I loved not thee.

Love laid his sleepless head
On a thorny rosy bed;
And his eyes with tears were red,
And pale his lips as the dead.

And fear and sorrow and scorn
Kept watch by his head forlorn,
Till the night was overworn,
And the world was merry with morn.

And Joy came up with the day,
And kissed Love's lips as he lay,
And the watchers ghostly and gray
Sped from his pillow away.

And his eyes as the dawn grew bright,
And his lips waxed ruddy as light:
Sorrow may reign for a night,
But day shall bring back delight.

At brightest dawn I'll rise and take
Long, ruddy lances from the sun,
And search with them each shady brake
To see where Love hath gone.
Love, Love, where liest thou?
“Thou shalt not find me so.”

I'll filch the brightest star on high
And tie it to my pilgrim's staff;
And by its rays I'll onward hie
To see where Love doth laugh.
Love, Love, where dost thou lie?
“Oh, not in shadows by!”

I'll climb the rainbow's rosy bridge,
And peep the pearlèd clouds above;
I'll cling to Luna's diamond edge,
Or I will find thee, Love!

Ye loving wormes, come learne of me,
The plagues to leave that linked be;
The grudge, the grief, the gret anoy,
The fickle faith, the fading ioy,
In time take heed;
In fruitlesse soile sow not thy seed:
Buie not, with cost,
The thing that yeelds but labour lost.

If Cupids dart do chance to light,
So that affection dimmes thy sight;
Then raise up reason, by and by,
With skill thy heart to fortifie;
Where is a breach,
Oft times too late doth come the Leach:
Sparks are put out,
When furnace flames do rage about.

When Phillis sleeps beside her couch Love lies,
When Phillis wakes, Love follows where she roves,
Love's in her words, her silence, and her sighs,
And her whole life and all her power are Love's.
Gesture and song he taught her—and his doves
Instructed her to murmur. Even in ire
Love makes her lovelier—and with grief improves
Charms which he only, could with tears inspire.
If through the mazy dance all grace she moves,
Her fairy feet Love tunes to music's lyre,
And wings o'er flowers, like Zephyr through the groves: