Count the sighs, and count the teares,
Which have in part my budding yeares:
Comment on my wofull looke,
Which is now blacke sorrows booke.
Read how love is overcome,
Weepe and sigh, and then be dumbe.
Say it was your charity
To helpe him whose eyes are dry.
Here paint my Cleora's name,
Then a heart, and then a flame,
Then marke how the heart doth fry
When Cleora is so nigh.
Though the flame did do its part,
'Twas the name that broke the heart.
Peace, no more, no more you need
My sad history to read.
Fold the paper up agen,

Father of our feeble race!—
Wise, beneficent, and kind,—
Spread o'er nature's ample face,
Flows thy goodness unconfin'd;
Musing in the silent grove,
Or the busy haunts of men,
Still we trace thy wond'rous love,
Claiming large returns again.

Lord! what off'ring shall we bring,
At thine altars when we bow?
Hearts, the pure, unsullied spring
Whence the kind affections flow;
Soft compassion's feeling soul,
By the melting eye express'd;
Sympathy, at whose control,
Sorrow leaves the wounded breast;

Between her breasts is my home, between her breasts.
Three sides set on me space and fear, but the fourth side rests
Sure and a tower of strength, 'twixt the walls of her breasts.

Having known the world so long, I have never confessed
How it impresses me, how hard and compressed
Rocks seem, and earth, and air uneasy, and waters still ebbing west

All things on the move, going their own little ways, and all
Jostling, people touching and talking and making small
Contacts and bouncing off again, bounce! bounce like a ball!

It is good to be as you are, young, handsome, virile, alive to love and flesh——
ah, better than being a mere poet,
and with being a poet as well,
better than being a mere god,
for rare is the god who is young and handsome——
rare as a like poet.


O Catullus,
not even the god outlives the poet,
nor is the god more idolized by those who worship with the kiss——
for even Apollo thirsted for the liquor of the lips. Young, handsome, virile,
he waited and bewailed, with luck no better than Orpheus had,

Go, sweet Polymnia, Thanks for all your Cost
And Love to me; wherein no Love is lost.
As you have taught me various verse to use,
I have taught you to be a Christian Muse.

What is the whole world worth, Dear,
Weighed against love and truth?
Sweet is the spring to the earth, Dear,
Bright is the blossom of youth:

And the skies of summer are tender
In fullness of life and strength,
And rich is the autumn splendor,
But winter comes at length.

Tell me, what spell shall charm us
When the golden days expire?
What is there left to warm us
Save Love's most sacred fire?

While on the soul's high altar
Its clear light burns secure,
Though the step of joy may falter,

Oh blessing and delight of my young heart,
Maiden, who was so lovely and so pure,
I know not in what region now thou art,
Or whom thy gentle eyes in joy assure.
Not the old hills on which we gazed together,
Not the old faces which we both did love,
Not the old books, whence knowledge we did gather,
Not these, but others now thy fancies move.
I would I knew thy present hopes and fears,
All thy companions, with their pleasant talk,
And the clear aspect which thy dwelling wears:
So, though in body absent, I might walk

Never farewell. Though all life changes round about us,
Never farewell to thee!
The summers smile and pass. The new spring days without us
Win the same ecstasy.

Life deepens into death, and death brings new life bearing
New gifts that time may take.
Leaf saith to leaf farewell, and flower to flower despairing:—
Flower-hearts and men's hearts break.

Death seems to rule, and pain with foot alert and deadly
Treads through the ill-fated throng.
The world seems just one waste, one sorrowful vast medley
Of wrath and grief and wrong.

Artist of the skillful hand,
Grave me a bowl, and on it show
Floral pomp of gracious spring;
Listen now to my command:
On it let bright roses grow,
Carve me birds upon the wing.
Draw the revel's mirthful whirl,
All the mad wine-kindled swirl.

Tale of horror, cruel rite,
Battle-scene or sacrifice,
Do not there depict for me
Venus, queen of soft delight,
Bacchus reeling tipsy-wise,
On the cup let pictured be.
And beneath a broad-leaved vine
Let Love and Graces twine.

Love shall be without his arms,

. . . . . . . . . But he found her not;
Lonely and empty was the leafy cot,
Like a sad streamlet in the winter's frost
With all the glory of its lilies lost.
He searched, he called: no answering voice was heard,
But a faint shudder that the branches stirred …