Behold a wonder here,
Love hath received his sight,
Which many hundred year
Hath not beheld the light.

Such beams infused be
By Cynthia in his eyes,
As first have made him see
And then have made him wise.

Love now no more will weep
For them that laugh the while;
Nor wake for them that sleep,
Nor sigh for them that smile.

So powerful is the beauty
That Love doth now behold,
As Love is turned to duty
That 's neither blind nor bold.

This Beauty shows her might
To be of double kind,
In giving Love his sight

How do I love to sit and dream
Of that sweet passion, when I meet
The lady I must love for life!
The very thought makes my Soul beat
Its wings, as though it saw that light
Silver the rims of my black night.

I see her bring a crimson mouth
To open at a kiss, and close;
I see her bring her two fair cheeks,
That I may paint on each a rose;
I see her two hands, like doves white,
Fly into mine and hide from sight.

In fancy hear her soft, sweet voice;
My eager Soul, to catch her words,
Waits at the ear, with Noah's haste

I dreamed my love had set thy spirit free,
Enfranchised thee from Fate's o'ermastering power,
And girt thy being with a scatheless dower
Of rich and joyous immortality;
Of Love, I dreamed my soul had ransomed thee,
In thy lone, dread, incalculable hour
From those pale hands at which all mortals cower,
And conquered Death by Love, like Savitri.
When I awoke, alas, my love was vain
E'en to annul one throe of destined pain,
Or by one heart-beat to prolong thy breath;
O Love, alas, that love could not assuage
The burden of thy human heritage,

Past and
gone now
is the time I awaited,
leaving me
clinging—
anxious for wind
from the pines,
like dewdrops
at break of day.

“O WILL you wear a nosegay
If I should pluck the flowers,
And will it be the dearer
In four-and-twenty hours?”
“Yes, I will wear your nosegay
A day upon my breast,
And then among my treasures
A life-time it will rest.”
They have an old enchantment
Of scents that never wane,
And posies are the sweetest
From Love Lane.

“O will you sing a song, love,
With magic words of mine,
Of prayer, and praise, and pleasure,
The olive and the vine?”
“Yes, I will sing your song, love,
And never may they cease,

Sweet and lovely, dimly in my dream,
a warbling oriole, west of my emerald tree…
I rise, the sun is glowing red,
and he has moved to sing in another tree.

Teach me, dearest, how to win thee
For the worth is not in me.
Let the blessed light within thee
Make me liker unto thee.
All my heart's unwearied loving
But a broken thing would be
Save that with most kind approving
Thy redeeming eye should see.

Wolde God that it were so
As I coude wishe betwixt us two!

The man that I loved altherbest
In al this contré, est other west,
To me he is a strange gest:
What wonder is't though I be wo?

When me were levest that he shold dwell,
. . . . . .
He wold nought say ones farewell
When time was come that he most go.

In places ofte when I him mete,
I dare nought speke, but forth I go;
With herte and eyes I him grete—
So trewe of love I know no mo.

As he is myn herte love,
My derward dere, y-blessed he be!

Stir—
Shake off sleep.
Your eyes are the soul of clear waters—
Pigeons
In a city street.

Suns now dead
Have tucked away of their gold for your hair:
My buried mouth still tastes their fires.

A tender god built your breasts—
Apples of desire;
Their whiteness slakes the throat;
Their form soothes like honey.

Wake up!
Or the song-bird in my heart
Will peck open the shell of your dreams.
. . . . . . . . . .
Sleep, my own,
Soaring over rivers of fire.
Sleep, my own,
Wading waters of gold.

Joy is in my heart—

Accept, kind Sir, all I can give,
My wishes that you'll deign to live;
Nor doubt you'll meet some lovely fair,
By far more worthy of your care;
Who will reward your ardent flame,
With what Louisa dare not name;
By what is sanction'd by above,
A reciprocal mutual love.
Then spurn the maid you think unkind,
And tear her image from your mind;
Let Hope no longer be caress'd,
Within thy far too-constant breast.
Let sweet revenge her rage impart,
To pluck the viper from your heart.
May some kind nymph your love return,
And with a genial ardour burn;