Permit not, Lord, the hope of heaven to urge
To turn to thee the longing of thy child;
Nor to forsake offending, terror-filled,
The pains of hell become for me a scourge.

Suffer me, Saviour, to approach the verge
Of Life, see thee alive, and nailed, reviled,
Thy body torn and bloody and defiled;
In thy death torment grant my love to merge.

Suffer me, Lord, to love thee in such wise
That though I had not heaven I love thee still,
That though I had not hell I fear thy will.

Because I love thee hold me out no prize.

‘I loue the rose both red & white.’
‘Is that your pure perfite appetite?’
‘To here talke of them is my delite!’
‘Ioyed may we be,
oure prince to se,
&rosys thre!’

SLEEPING ! why now sleeping?
The moon herself looks gay,
While through thy lattice peeping;
Wilt not her call obey?
Wake, love, each star is keeping
For thee its brightest ray;
And languishes the gleaming
From fire-flies now streaming
Athwart the dewy spray.

Awake, the skies are weeping
Because thou art away,
But if of me thou'rt dreaming,
Sleep, loved one, while you may!
And music's wings shall hover
Softly thy sweet dreams over,
Fanning dark thoughts away,
While, dearest, 'tis thy lover
Who'll bid each bright one stay.

I WENT to dig a grave for Love,
But the earth was so stiff and cold
That, though I strove through the bitter night,
I could not break the mould.

And I said: “Must he lie in my house in state,
And stay in his wonted place?
Must I have him with me another day,
With that awful change in his face?”

See yonder leafless trees against the sky,
How they diffuse themselves into the air,
And ever subdividing separate,
Limbs into branches, branches into twigs,
As if they loved the element, & hasted
To dissipate their being into it.

If I could lay my head upon your knee
And let the world go by! Love, could it be?—
Could we shut out the poor world's muffled tread,
The cry at birth, the wailing for the dead,
All things that tell us of mortality
And love's short life?—Nay, love, how could it be?

How happy the lover,
—How easy his chain,
—How pleasing his pain!
How sweet to discover
—He sighs not in vain!
For love, every creature
Is formed by his nature;
—No joys are above
—The pleasures of love.

In vain are our graces,
—In vain are your eyes,
—If love you despise;
When age furrows faces,
—'Tis time to be wise.
Then use the short blessing
That flies in possessing:
—No joys are above
—The pleasures of love.

How happy the lover,
—How easy his chain,
—How pleasing his pain!
How sweet to discover

Come, listen to my story, while
Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing some maids will smile,
While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
Such florid songs as ours,
Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames,
Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while
Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing there's some may smile,
While some, perhaps, will sigh.

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
Such nets had learn'd to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,

To be able
and not to do it

Still as a flower

No flame,
a flower spent
with heat—

lovely flower
hanging
in the rain


Never!

Soberly

Whiter than day

Wait forever
shaken by the rain

To her, who, cast with me in trying days,
Stood in the place of health, and power, and praise;—
Who, when I thought all light was out, became
A lamp of hope that put my fears to shame;—
Who faced for love's sole sake the life austere
That waits upon the man of letters here;—
Who, unawares, her deep affection showed,
By many a touching little wifely mode;—
Whose spirit self-denying, dear, divine,
Its sorrows hid, so it might lessen mine,—
To her, my bright best friend, I dedicate
This book of songs. 'Twill help to compensate