What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see,
What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true love is to me!
As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed--
As morning bright, with scarlet sky, doth pass the evening's weed--
As mellow pears above the crabs esteemèd be--
So doth my love surmount them all, whom yet I hap to see
The oak shall olives bear, the lamb the lion fray,
The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay.
Or I may love let slip out of mine entire heart,
So deep reposèd in my breast is she for her desart!

Last, Stone, a little yet;
And then this dust forget.
But thou, fair Rose, bloom on.
For she who is gone
Was lovely too; nor would she grieve to be
Sharing in solitude her dreams with thee.

Thanks it is to holy love
That the Gods are blessed above;
Thanks to love it is mankind
Near the Gods a place can find.
Heaven becomes more heavenly still,
Earth acquires a heavenly thrill.

Near Pyrrha in the days of yore
(So all the poets sang)
From crags and stones the world did soar,
Man from the bed-rock sprang.

Their hearts were formed of rock and stone,
Their souls were dark as night,
For on them never yet had shone
The heavenly torch of light.

Not yet they knew the rosy chain

Who has not found the heaven below
Will fail of it above.
God's residence is next to mine,
His furniture is love.

I loved you once; love even yet, it may be,
Within my soul has not quite died away;
But let that cause you no anxiety;
I would not give you pain in any way.
I loved you helplessly, and hopelessly,
With jealousy, timidity, brought low;
I loved you so intensely, tenderly,
I pray to God another love you so.

Thou hast no human soul, O flower!
Thou heedest not if I am near;
But I may come at any hour
And take thy beauty without fear.

Thou hast no human smile to bless,
And not with tears thine eyes are wet;
But I may love thee and caress,
Without reproach, without regret.

Where love is king,
Ah, there is little need
To dance and sing,
With bridal-torch to flare
Amber and scatter light
Across the purple air,
To sing and dance
To flute-note and to reed.

Where love is come
(Ah, love is come indeed!)
Our limbs are numb
Before his fiery need;
With all their glad
Rapture of speech unsaid,
Before his fiery lips
Our lips are mute and dumb.

Ah, sound of reed,
Ah, flute and trumpet wail,
Ah, joy decreed—
The fringes of her veil
Are seared and white;

To herald in another year,
With rhythmic note the snowflakes fall
Silently from their crystal courts,
To answer Winter's call.
Wake, mortal! Time is winged anew!
Call Love and Hope and Faith to fill
The chambers of thy soul to-day;
Life hath its blessings still!

These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant's price: I think they love not Art
Who break the crystal of a poet's heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw

Love , lift me up upon thy golden wings,
From this base world unto thy heavens hight,
Where I may see those admirable things
Which there thou workest by thy soveraine might,
Farre above feeble reach of earthly sight,
That I thereof an heavenly hymne may sing
Unto the God of Love, high heavens king.

Many lewd layes (ah, woe is me the more!)
In praise of that mad fit which fooles call love,
I have in th' heat of youth made heretofore,
That in light wits did loose affection move.
But all those follies now I do reprove,