love poem

Jesus, Thy sweetness who might it see
And thereof have a clear knowing,
All earthly love should bitter be
Save Thine alone without lesing,
I pray Thee, Lord, that lore teach me
After Thy love to have longing
And firmly set my heart on Thee
In Thy love to have most liking.

So sweet a love in earth none is:
Could but our souls Him soothly see
Him to love were mickel bliss;
For King of Love called is He.
With steadfast love I yearn for this,
That fast to Him I bound may be,

My Leman is so true
Of love, and full steadfast,
Yet seemeth ever new.
His love is on us cast.
I would that all Him knew
And loved Him firm and fast:
They never would it rue
But happy be at last.

My Leman is so meek,
So courteous, sweet and still;
Full gentle in His speech,
His words are never grille;
But good He wills to each,
Forget He would all ill:
If I flee He will me seek,
With love He will me till.

Outside although He stands
Calling at my gate,

Flowing in the sunlight here,
The river shines like a glass,
Even as it did last year;
On the hillside the grass
Bows, as the breezes pass —
But my love is gone, my love is gone.

Where is she — where, and how?
Has she forgotten me yet?
Ah, she has forgotten me now!
She is too lovely for regret:
Would that I ever could forget,
My love is gone, my love is gone!

It is so still — so still ...
The sound of a rumbling train
Rushes into the hill.
Autumn comes again

How shall I sing of Her that is
My life's long rapture and despair —
Sorrow eternal — Loveliness,
To whom each heart-beat is a prayer!

Utterly, endlessly, alone
Possessing me, yet unpossessed —
The dark, the drear beloved One
That takes the tribute of this breast:

Daemon disconsolate, in vain,
In vain petitioned and implored —
How many a midnight of disdain
Darkly and dreadfully adored!

Beauty, the virgin, evermore
Out of these arms with laughter fled —

The baffled dreamer, the defeated Christ
That for your love upon the cross-tree hung —
O take Him to your bosom, give Him rest
Close at the wanton wonder of your breast,
O carnal World, forever well and young!

As when in blustring, thund'ring, wintry days,
The bully Boreas on his bagpipe plays;
When old Aquarius ducks this earthly ball,
And empties on our heads his urinal;
When rumbling clouds on grumbling clouds do dash,
And 'midst the flashing lightnings lightnings flash;
Hogs, dogs, and men, perceive the troubled sky,
Hogs, dogs, and men, away for shelter fly;
While all around, the black, dark, gloomy scene
Looks grey, looks white, looks red, looks blue, looks green;
So green, so blue, so red, so grey, so white,

O Love, let the world for once go by,
With its danger-signals & warning cry,
Or else let us dream it was swung in space
Just that we two might stand face to face,
Soul within soul, as eye within eye,
Deaf, blind to all else save the you & the me —
Ah, for once, my life, let the whole world be!
What! We had promised? The words were not ours —
What! There's a heart dead? But ours are just born —

Ay, what will it matter, when all are dead,
That we died apart, with one word unsaid?

As we sit, you and I, in the twilight
And breathe the soft breath of the roses
That mingled with lily and iris
Steals up from your quaint garden-closes;
In the mystical, soft evening weather
When the sunset burns amber and clear
I think that a life-time together
Would not be half long enough, dear!

I long — how I long, my heart's Lady,
To call you a name that is dearer,
To be — always your slave and your lover
And in time something fonder and nearer.
Come home to me, darling, my Lady!

O Love, where are the hours fled,
The hours of our young delight?
Are they forever gone and dead,
Or only vanished out of sight?

O can it be that we shall live
To know once more the joys gone by,
To feel the old, deep love revive,
And smile again before we die?

Could I but fancy it might be,
Could I the past bring back again,
And for one moment, holding thee,
Forget the present and its pain!

O Love, those hours are past away
Beyond our longing and our sighs —

A Crambo Song.

Great Phaebus in his vast career,
Who forms the self-succeeding year,
Thron'd in his amber chariot,
Sees not an object half so bright,
Nor gives such joy, such life, such light,
As dear delicious Harriote .

Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,
Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not burns,
Read Malbranche, Boyle, and Marriote,
I scorn their philosophic strife,
And study Nature from the life,