An uninvited woman;
I live with her.
Many days, I am that woman.
So it is,
while love is a special invitation,
the reception of conscience.

This day so lonely
one could shout for it,
in the cold spring
that gathers
at the bottom of existence,
like complete forgiveness
a love glimmers.

Love is
customary sight,
repeated encounter,
the unification of soul and body
in the past, present, future.

Today,
love compromised my character.
No, each day
love has compromised my character.

Even love dies of starvation;
heart stays cold after a drink
of warm water—
The sickness grows worse, my love;
O my love, you have closed your eyes!

When a woman is without love,
she doesn't know how to
become good and hopeful.

When a woman is in love,
she dies of thirst

As on Purple Carpets I
Charm'd by wine in slumber ly,
With a troop of Maids (resorted
There to play) me thought I sported:
Whose companions, lovely Boies,
Interrupt me with rude noise:
Yet I offer made to kisse them,
But o'th'sudden wake and misse them:
Vext to see them thus forsake me,
I to sleep again betake me.

Wales England wed, so I was bred.
'twas merry London gave me breath.
I dreamt of love,—and fame. I strove:
but Ireland taught me love was best.
And Irish eyes, and London cries,
and streams of Wales, may tell the rest,
What more than these I asked of life,
I am content to have from Death.

Wales England wed, so I was bred.
'twas merry London gave me breath.
I dreamt of love,—and fame. I strove:
but Ireland taught me love was best.
And Irish eyes, and London cries,
and streams of Wales, may tell the rest,

Still dumb thou sittest, with a downcast look,
The world forgetting o'er a brown old book;

While she who would be always near thee tries
In silence to embrace thee with her eyes.

Say not so sharply ‘Leave me here in peace!’
Nay! leave thy book, and from dull reading cease;

Since many a man who sits alone, perplexed,
Would yield all else to be so teased and vexed.

Give up thy book of life for Love to paint
With golden pictures of a household saint,

With miniatures whose blazon may provide
For days that shall grow dark a light and guide;

Here's a meadow full of sunshine,
Ripe grasses lush and high;
There's a reaper on the roadway,
And a lark hangs in the sky.

There's a nest of love enclosing
Three little beaks that cry;
The reaper's in the meadow
And a lark hangs in the sky.

Here's a mead all full of summer,
And tragedy goes by
With a knife amongst the grasses,
And a song up in the sky.