I leave this, Dear, for you to read,
For strength and hope, when I am dead.
When Grace died, I was so perplex'd;
I could not find one helpful text;
And when, a little while before,
I saw her sobbing on the floor,
Because I told her that in heaven
She would be as the angels even,
And would not want her doll, 'tis true
A horrible fear within me grew,
That, since the preciousness of love
Went thus for nothing, mine might prove
To be no more, and heaven's bliss
Some dreadful good which is not this.

I've dreadful news, my Sister dear!
Frederick has married, as we hear,
Oh, such a girl! This fact we get
From Mr. Barton, whom we met
At Abury once. He used to know,
At Race and Hunt, Lord Clitheroe,
And writes that he " has seen Fred Graham,
" Commander of the Wolf, — the same
" The Mess call'd Joseph, — with his Wife
" Under his arm." He " lays his life,
" The fellow married her for love,
" For there was nothing else to move.
" H. is her Shibboleth. 'Tis said
" Her Mother was a Kitchen-Maid."

Your love lacks joy, your letter says,
Yes; love requires the focal space
Of recollection or of hope,
Ere it can measure its own scope.
Too soon, too soon comes Death to show
We love more deeply than we know!
The rain, that fell upon the height
Too gently to be call'd delight,
Within the dark vale reappears
As a wild cataract of tears;
And love in life should strive to see
Sometimes what love in death would be!
Easier to love, we so should find,
It is then to be just and kind.

Love , like a bird, hath perch'd upon a spray
For thee and me to harken what he sings.
Contented, he forgets to fly away;
But hush! … remind not Eros of his wings.

Love

Love, like a bird, hath perched upon a spray
 For thee and me to hearken what he sings.
Contented, he forgets to fly away;
 But hush! Remind not Eros of his wings.

The Poet

The Poet gathers fruit from every tree,
Yea, grapes from thorns and figs from thistles he.
Plucked by his hand, the basest weed that grows
Towers to a lily, reddens to a rose.

Parting:
Love for love, the willow grows distant from our boat

Love:
Frozen hands and feet come and gladly meet at night

Love 's a lovely lad,
His bringing up is Beauty,
Who loves him not is mad;
For I must pay him duty
Now I am sad.

Hail to those sweet eyes,
That shine celestial wonder,
From thence do flames arise
Burns my poor heart asunder,
Now it fries.

Cupid sets a crown
Upon those lovely tresses;
Oh spoil not with a frown
What he so sweetly dresses.
I'll sit down.

Whither shall I go
To escape away from folly?
For now there's love I know,
Or else 'tis melancholy.
Heigh, heigho.

Love is a law, a discord of such force
That 'twixt our sense and reason makes divorce.
Love's a desire that to obtain betime
We lose an age of years pluck'd from our prime,
Love is a thing to which we soon consent,
As soon refuse, but sooner far repent.
Then what must women be that are the cause,
That Love hath life? that Lovers feel such laws?
They're like the winds upon Lapanthae's shores,
That still are changing. Oh then love no more.
A woman's love is like that Syrian flow'r
That buds, and spreads, and withers in an hour.

Love was before the light began,
When light is over, love shall be;
O warm hand in the grave, O bridge of truth,
O ivy's tooth
Eating the green heart of the tree