Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,
I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.

I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,
When I think of her I love so deep.

Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,
In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.

When I see you come through the forest grove,
On its leaves I write the secret of my love.

—But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,
To hold the secrets close which their page receives.

When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,
Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.

I drew a marsh of solemn gray;
And over it a heron flew;
It was a sullen autumn day
When that sad marsh I drew.
But, over all the wistful waste,
A spirit seemed to ride above.
And someone bade me call the scene:
“The Haunt of a Lost Love.”

I turned from solemn meres to gay
And dancing troops of summer flowers.
I etched the mountains and the play
Of light about their towers.
And, though I warmed my brush's flow
In fern and flower and turtle-dove,
A stranger passed and wrote below:
“The Haunt of a Lost Love.”

In vain I Drunkenness forswore,
Because by That made Sick and Blind;
Since tho' I have the Flask giv'n o'er,
Love still intoxicates my Mind.

If then for either Sottishness,
Alike Man's Sense is in Disguise;
No matter which way, sure, it is,
By sparkling Wine, or sparkling Eyes.

Yet most debauch'd the Lovers shew,
As Love is sober Sottishness;
Whilst Drunkards know not what they do,
Which makes their Guilt and Folly less.

Glad sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.

Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love.

Love is the plant of peace and most precious of virtues;
For heaven hold it ne might, so heavy it seemed,
Till it had on earth yoten himself.
Was never leaf upon linden light thereafter,
As when it had of the fold flesh and blood taken;
Then was it portative and piercing as the point of a needle.
May no armour it let, neither high walls.
For-thy love leader of our Lord's folk of heaven.

Ye gods! was Strephon's picture blest
With the fair heaven of Chloe's breast?
Move softer, thou fond fluttering heart!
Oh gently throb,—too fierce thou art.
Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind,
For Strephon was the bliss design'd?
For Strephon's sake, dear charming maid,
Didst thou prefer his wandering shade?
And thou, blest shade! that sweetly art
Lodged so near my Chloe's heart,
For me the tender hour improve,
And softly tell how dear I love.
Ungrateful thing! it scorns to hear
Its wretched master's ardent pray'r,

It is a gay and glittering cloud,
Born in the early light of day,
It lies upon the gentle hills,
Rosy, and sweet, and far away.

It burns again when noon is high;
Like molten gold 't is clothed in light,
'T is beautiful and glad as love,—
A joyous, soul-entrancing sight.

But now 't is fading in the west,
On the flowering heaven a withered leaf,
As faint as shadow on the grass
Thrown by a gleam of moonshine brief.

So life is born, grows up, and dies,
As cloud upon the world of light;
It comes in joy, and moves in love,

Across our path a sunbeam gently lies;
We know not whence it came; we think we know;
But, as we watch its glories come and go,
It fades away! Whither? Into the skies?
We seek to follow it, with blinking eyes,
Beyond the Veil—of which we nothing know!
But e'en imagination is too slow
To chase a sunbeam as it heavenward flies.
The fairest and the dearest objects fade,
Just as a sunbeam comes and glides away;
But, e'en while lingering in the gloom and shade,
Struggling through sorrow's night into the day,
We feel “'tis better to have loved and lost

Love!—what is love? a mere machine, a spring
For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing,
A point to which each scribbling wight most steer,
Or vainly hope for food or favour here;
A summer's sigh; a winter's wistful tale:
A sound at which th' untutor'd maid turns pale;
Her soft eyes languish, and her bosom heaves,
And Hope delights as Fancy's dream deceives.

Thus speaks the heart which cold disgust invades,
When time instructs, and Hope's enchantment fades;
Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings,
The puppets move, as art directs the strings:

Think not 'cause men flattering say
Y' are fresh as April, sweet as May,
Bright as is the morning star,
That you are so; or though you are
Be not therefore proud, and deem
All men unworthy your esteem.
For, being so, you lose the pleasure
Of being fair, since that rich treasure
Of rare beauty and sweet feature
Was bestowed on you by nature
To be enjoyed, and 'twere a sin
There to be scarce where she hath been
So prodigal of her best graces;
Thus common beauties and mean faces
Shall have more pastime, and enjoy
The sport you lose by being coy.