Parted, I came away and years have passed;
each year my love increases
because of you

On the sand of a sandhill I lie on my belly
and think this day
of the pain of first love as something remote

Sadly stars fall; two in love have lain side by side for the first time tonight

How lovely! getting drunk faster than I do, you've fallen asleep, your arm for a pillow

Ah, our kiss — may the sea remain as it is, the sun stay, and birds, dancing, die and cease now!

What can I do, I love you so much!
As you leave, I cling to you.
I am to you as the forest bird to its mate:
getting to perch together with you,
but not to fly with you.

Live here, great Heart; and love and dy and kill;
And bleed and wound; and yeild and conquer still.
Let this immortall life where'er it comes
Walk in a crowd of loves and MARTYRDOMES.
Let mystick DEATHS wait on't; and wise soules be
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! shew here thy art,
Upon this carcase of a hard, cold, heart;
Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy large Books of day,
Combin'd against this BREAST at once break in
And take away from me my self and sin;

By nature I love to dress my hair,
combing it carefully, arranging it neatly about my face.
As I hold the mirror in my hand,
a thousand times I gaze at my own image!
But, alas! my hand grows weary of this,
and so I must try to find:
a mirror-stand

Yesterday, as I went down to the bridge at the river,
I was stared at by all the passers-by.
The flowers were sparse—I had no place to hide,
and so they all could see my newly made-up face!
Every moment was filled with embarrassment,
and so I must try to find:

Fair is my Love that feeds among the lilies,
The lilies growing in that pleasant garden
Where Cupid's Mount that well belovid hill is,
And where that little god himself is warden.

See where my Love sits in the beds of spices,
Beset all round with camphor, myrrh, and roses,
And interlaced with curious devices
Which her apart from all the world incloses!
There doth she tune her lute for her delight,
And with sweet music makes the ground to move,
Whilst I, poor I, do sit in heavy plight,
Wailing alone my unrespected love;

If love be like the flower that in the night,
When darkness drowns the glory of the skies,
Smells sweet, and glitters in the gazer's sight,
But when the gladsome sun begins to rise,
And he that views it, would the same embrace,
It withereth, and loseth all his grace:

Why do I love and like the cursed tree,
Whose buds appear, but fruit will not be seen:
Why do I languish for the flower I see,
Whose root is rot, when all the leaves be green?
In such a case it is a point of skill
To follow chance, and love against my will.