That learned Father, which so firmely proves
The Soule of Man immortall and divine,
And doth the sev'rall Offices define:
Gives her that Name, as she the Body moves,
Then is she Love, imbracing Charitie,
Moving a Will in us, it is the Mind,
Retayning Knowledge, still the same in kind;
As intellectuall, it is Memorie,
In judging, Reason onely is her Name,
In speedie apprehension, it is Sense,
In Right or Wrong, they call her Conscience,
The Spirit, when it to God-ward doth inflame:
These of the Soule the sev'rall Functions bee,

Nothing but No and I, and I and No,
How fals it out so strangely you reply?
I tell yee (Faire) ile not be answered so,
With this affirming No, denying I.
I say, I Love, you sleightly answere I:
I say, You Love, you peule me out a No:
I say, I Die, you Eccho me with I:
Save mee I Crie, you sigh me out a No;
Must Woe and I, have naught but No and I?
No I, am I, if I no more can have;
Answere no more, with Silence make reply,
And let me take my selfe what I doe crave,
Let No and I, with I and you be so:
Then answere No and I, and I and No.

Who says
That it's by my desire,
This separation, this living so far from you?
My dress still smells of the lavender you gave:
My hand still holds the letter that you sent.
Round my waist I wear a double sash:
I dream that it binds us both with a same-heart knot.
Did not you know that people hide their love,
Like a flower that seems too precious to be picked?

Is any one sad in the world, I wonder?
Does any one weep on a day like this,
With the sun above, and the green earth under?
Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

With the sun, and the skies, and the birds above me,
Birds that sing as they wheel and fly—
With the winds to follow and say they love me—
Who could be lonely? O ho, not I!

Somebody said, in the street this morning,
As I opened my window to let in the light,
That the darkest day of the world was dawning;
But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight.

Ile get me hence,
Because no fence,
Or Fort that I can make here;
But Love by charmes,
Or else by Armes
Will storme, or starving take here.

Love-dazed, on rosy paths I sought thee far;
That was the spring, my gay and stormy prime.
Then I encountered thee with smiles and war;
Those were the manhood years of summer-time.
I thank thee for the joy thy presence gave;
'T is autumn, when our bed must be—the grave.

At my threshold stands a guest;
Shall I, dare I, bid him enter?
'T is the very dead of winter;
Snowy roads his feet have pressed;
Inhospitably I wait,
Trembling, still I hesitate.

With his wings he veils his face,
And a glory half divine
Like a nimbus seems to shine
Round him, making bright the place.
Cold the night, and yet I stand,
On the latch a halting hand.

What if I should bid him come,
And with him should enter Woe?
For 't is whispered, well we know,
That the pair together roam;
And who welcomes Love, they say,

If I had chosen, my tears had all been dews;
I would have drawn a bird's or blossom's breath,
Nor outmoaned yonder dove. I did not choose—
And here is Life for me, and there is Death.

Ay, here is Life. Bloom for me, violet;
Whisper me, Love, all things that are not true;
Sing, nightingale and lark, till Iforget—
For here is Life, and I have need of you.

So, there is Death. Fade, violet, from the land;
Cease from your singing, nightingale and lark;
Forsake me, Love, for I without your hand
Can find my way more surely to the dark.

Now summer's come,
smoky torches at every house
drive away mosquitoes—
and I—how long will I go on
smoldering with love?

My love
Is like the grasses
Hidden in the deep mountain:
Though its abundance increases,
There is none that knows.