They stirred not, though the drench matted their hair,
And their two bodies streamed, cold and beaten.

He cried out: “I love you,”
But the words meant nothing.

“No,” she said, “it is not I you love! Not I!”

He was numb with despair.

“But you love me?” he faltered.

“Ah,” she said, “the heart must love, though it love but a dream:
But only a man shall win me.”

“And I,” he said, “am I no man?”

She was silent: he heard the rain on her lowered head …
And he knew himself for what he was.

He repaired to the temple to make sacrifice:
For he loved God so that he had to give to him …

And he had but one thing to give that was precious to him,
The sword of his Mother.

“And this will I give,” he said, “though the blood of my heart goes with it.”

He came to the image in the inmost shrine,
And he loved the image …

He knelt and prayed to it …
“Father,” he prayed, “thy love enfolds me,
I am a child in thine arms:
Thou art with me day and night,
And where I go, thou followest,
And when I need, thou art there …

When Cleomira disbelieves
Her shepherd, when he swears he lives
Or dies i' th' smiles or frowns she gives,

The echo mourns him to the plain,
And pity moves in ev'ry swain,
And makes the nymphs partake his pain.

But pity and the fair ones prove,
When Cleomira hates his love,
Like strange embraces to a dove.

For Cleomira's hate can turn
Fresh youth and beauty to an urn:
Death sure than it's much easier borne!

But Cleomira's love can bless,
And turn t' a grove a wilderness,
A dungeon to a pleasant place.

Dear! Dear!
As the night draws nigh draw near.
The world's forgotten;
Work is done;
The hour for loving
Is begun.

Sweet! Sweet!
It is love-time when we meet.
The hush of desire
Falls with the dew,
And all the evening
Turns to you.

Child! Child!
With the warm heart wise and wild.
My spirit trembles
Under your hand;
You look in my eyes
And understand.

Mine! Mine!
Mistress of mood divine.
What lore of the ages
Bids you know
The heart of a man
Can love you so?

A good way to fall in love
is to turn off the headlights
and drive very fast down dark roads.
Another way to fall in love
is to say they are only mints
and swallow them with a strong drink.
Then it is autumn in the body.
Your hands are cold.
Then it is winter and we are still at war.
The gold-haired girl is singing into your ear
about how we live in a beautiful country.
Snow sifts from the clouds
into your drink. It doesn’t matter about the war.
A good way to fall in love
is to close up the garage and turn the engine on,

Sing ! Who mingles with my lays?
Maiden of the primrose days!
Sing with me, and I will show
All that thou in spring should'st know;
All the names of all the flowers;
What to do with primrose hours!

Sing! who mingles with my song?
Soldier in the battle strong!
Sing, and thee I'll music teach,
Such as thunders on the beach;
When the waves run mad and white,
Like a warrior in the fight!

Sing! who loves the music tender?
Widow, who hath no defender!
Orphan!—Scholar!—Mother wild,
Who hast loved (and lost) a child!

In summer seek thyself a love,
In garden and in grove;
For then the days are long enough,
And nights are mild to rove.

In winter must the tender knot
Be found well wove and tight,
For many a cold on snow is caught,
'Neath winter moons, at night.

Love flows not from my liver but her living,
From whence all stings to perfect love are darted
All power, and thought of prideful lust depriving
Her life so pure and she so spotless hearted.
In whom sits beauty with so firm a brow,
That age, nor care, nor torment can contract it;
Heaven's glories shinning there, do stuff allow,
And virtue's constant graces do compact it.
Her mind--the beam of God--draws in the fires
Of her chaste eyes, from all earth's tempting fuel;
Which upward lifts the looks of her desires,

But dwell in darkness, for your god is blind,
Humour pours down such torrents on his eyes;
Which, as from mountains, fall on his base kind,
And eat your entrails out with ecstasies.
Color, whose hands for faintness are not felt,
Can bind your waxen thoughts in adamant;
And with her painted fires your heart doth melt,
Which beat your souls in pieces with a pant.
But my love is the cordial of souls,
Teaching by passion what perfection is,
In whose fixed beauties shine the sacred scroll,
And long-lost records of your human bliss,