love poem

I can remember well
My very early youth,
My sumptuous Isabel,
Who was a girl of truth;
Of golden truth; — we do not often see
Those whose whole lives have only known to be.

So sunlight, very warm,
On harvest fields and trees,
Could not more sweetly form
Rejoicing melodies
For these deep things, than Isabel for me;
I lay beneath her soul as a lit tree.

With a spreading and spreading
(Like that) of the clouds that sit at morning
On the moor of Kasuga, —
I increase in my love
In the lapse of months and days.

Doubtlesse Christ onely loved man the most,
Entring into the world, (though he might boast
Rightly indeede to be the Sonne of God,
Man to deliver from Gods smarting Rod,
On him he rooke, such was his love to man ,
Not in arerages wherein he had ran,
Duely to pay the debts which he did owe,
Expressing plainly that he lov'd man so.

O that our love with zeale to Christ might burne,

Mourne we'de for Christ as he for us did mournt ,
A low, A low, Oh hone for us he cry'd,
Labouring with love when he did earst abide,

I

For whom is Beauty? Where no eyes attend
As richly goes the day; and every dawn
Reddens along green rivers whereupon
None ever gaze. Think, could earth see an end
Of all the twilight lovers whose thoughts blend
With scents of garden blooms they call their own,
Would not as close the yellowest rose outblown
Be, after them, the unmurmurous evening's friend?

The dark has passed, and the chill Autumn morn
Unrolls her faded glories in the fields;
Dead are the gilded air-hosts newly-born,
The hardiest flowers droop their sodden shields,
For lovely Summer hath cut short her stay —
The fickle goddess, loaded with delight,
Grown wantonly unconstant, fled away
Under a hoar-frost mantle yesternight.
In one brief hour, the warm and flashing skies
Pale in the marble dawn; we cannot choose,
But marvel that hearts turn to stone, and eyes
Brimful of passion all their lustre lose.

FROM METASTASIO

Believe me, dear girl, when I swear,
Though a stranger you're yet to Love's pain,
There is something too soft in your air,
Too gentle for scorn and disdain:

Though the torments of Love you mayn't know,
Yet cruel you never can prove;
For Pity, though colder than snow,
Is still the forerunner of Love.

TO WINTER.

Let happy mortals love the gaudy blooms
That deck the bosom of the laughing Spring,
And, fann'd by her warm breath, profusely fling
To the young gale their delicate perfumes; —
Stern, rugged Winter, thy congenial glooms
A mournful pleasure to that bosom bring,
Where pale Despondence spreads her lurid wing,
Which Fate severe to ceaseless sorrow dooms.

What is vrtue, when all's done,
Withered breast, shaking knees?
Cold thoughts sitting in the sun,
If it only bring you these?

Men love virtue — so they say,
So they say, but what they do
Kisses half your soul away,
And takes virtue out of you!

When you die, they'll say, " Poor thing! "
When I'm dead, they'll lean above;
One will kiss me, one will bring
A posy for the sake of love.

When we're both dead, gone far hence,
Will it matter what we've been?
On your virtues and my sins

Who will remember Heliodore?
The nightingales, the nightingales
That sing tonight in vain for thee,
Whose nights no singing shall restore?
The myrtle that in vain has shed
Bloom for thy bridal feet to tread
That wander dim and sunless vales
Far off, too far for love and me?
What music has Persephone,
What golden glade, what balmy grove
To bower sweet birds in lutany?
What lip or lyre speaks low in love,
Where grey ghosts after and before
Weave thee a mournful canopy
Of hemlock and of hellebore?

I

You who hear only the words
Saying I love you,
Know of my love
What a tree splashed with white foam
Knows of the salt bitterness of the sea.

II

No, I do not love you. A hundred times
I have slain my love for you, and left it dead
A hundred times.