Ask nothing more of me, sweet;
—All I can give you I give.
——Heart of my heart, were it more,
More would be laid at your feet:
—Love that should help you to live,
——Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give
—Once to have sense of you more,
——Touch you and taste of you, sweet,
Think you and breathe you and live,
—Swept of your wings as they soar,
——Trodden by chance of your feet.

I that have love and no more
—Give you but love of you, sweet:
——He that hath more, let him give;

As when into the garden paths by night
One bears a lamp, and with its sickly glare
Scatters the burnished flowers a-dreaming there,
Palely they show like spectres in his sight,
Lovely no more, disfurnished of delight,
Some folded up and drooping o'er the way,
Their odours spent, their colour changed to gray,
Some that stood queen-like in the morning light
Fallen discrowned: so the low-burning loves
That tremble in the hearts of aged men
Cast their own light upon the world that moves
Around them, and receive it back again.

AS WE entered by that door
We saw the lights a-flame —
A-flame on your bier,
On the bier of you
Who had loved many a one,
Loved many a one!

Then I said to your love,
To her, your latest love,
" There's his last room,
His final roof-tree
Who has lived in many a one,
In many a one.

" A tree never more
Grows to shield him
From the bitter cold and rain,
From the blighting light of love
Which ends many a one —
Ends many a one.

" There's his last tree;
You're his last love:
The new bud in bloom,

As the rain falls
so does
your love

bathe every
open
object of the world—
In houses
the priceless dry
rooms
of illicit love
where we live
hear the wash of the
rain—

There
paintings
and fine
metalware
woven stuffs—
all the whorishness
of our
delight
sees
from its window

the spring wash
of your love
the falling
rain—

The trees
are become
beasts fresh-risen

As shews the Aire, when with a Rain-bow grac'd;
So smiles that Riband 'bout my Julia's waste:
Or like — — Nay 'tis that Zonulet of love,
Wherein all pleasures of the world are wove.

As I roved out on a May morning,
Being in the youthful spring,
I leaned my back close to the garden wall,
To hear the small birds sing.

And to hear two lovers talk, my dear,
To know what they would say,
That I might know a little of her mind
Before I would go away.

" Come sit you down, my heart, " he says,
" All on this pleasant green,
It's full three-quarters of a year and more
Since together you and I have been. "

" I will not sit on the grass, " she said,
" Now nor any other time,

As honey in wine / wine, honey
Alexis in Cleobulus
Cleobulus in Alexis
sweet-haired & lovely each
as he with whom the other
mingles . . . product
of such two entwined
potent
as vineyards of deathless Cypris.

An old maid early eer I knew
Ought but the love that on me grew
And now Im coverd oer & oer
And wish that I had been a Whore

O I cannot cannot find
The undaunted courage of a Virgin Mind
For Early I in love was crost
Before my flower of love was lost

Amusing myself with rocks, I sit peering into the valley;
searching for blossoms, I wander round and round the temple.
Again and again I hear the birds talking,
and here and there the voice of the stream.

A MONG his books he sits all day
— To think and read and write;
He does not smell the new-mown hay,
— The roses red and white.

I walk among them all alone,
— His silly, stupid wife;
The world seems tasteless, dead and done —
— An empty thing is life.

At night his window casts a square
— Of light upon the lawn;
I sometimes walk and watch it there
— Until the chill of dawn.

I have no brain to understand
— The books he loves to read;
I only have a heart and hand
— He does not seem to need.