In the nativity of time,
Chloris, it was not thought a crime
In direct Hebrew for to woo.
Now we make love as all on fire,
Ring retrograde our loud desire,
And court in English, backward, too.

Thrice happy was that golden age,
When compliment was construed rage,
And fine words in the centre hid;
When cursèd No stained no maid's bliss,
And all discourse was summed in Yes,
And nought forbad, but to forbid.

Love, then unstinted, Love did sip,
And cherries plucked fresh from the lip;
On cheeks and roses free he fed;

It’s often those
who talk a streak
on world affairs
and love and peace
who seem to love
and peace the least.

If only I could pretend to be a bow woven with rattan
and hang on to the shoulders of a Bando lord!
Pretending I'm a bow I've fallen in love with a Bando lord!
Why doesn't my body go to him, as I wish?
Sheer beauty—that's what my Bando lord is!

If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or grey grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,

I SET a charm upon your hurrying breath,
I set a charm upon your wandering feet,
You shall not leave me—not for life, nor death,
Not even though you cease to love me, Sweet.

A woman's love nine Angels cannot bind,
Nor any rune that wind or water knows,
My heart were all as well set on the wind,
Or bound, to live or die, upon a rose.

I set a charm upon you, foot and hand,
That you and Knowledge, love, may never meet,
That you may never chance to understand
How strong you are, how weak your lover, Sweet.

I BEAR an unseen burden constantly;
Waking or sleeping I can never thrust
The load aside; through summer's heat and dust
And winter's snows it still abides with me.
I cannot let it fall, though I should be
Never so weary; carry it I must.
Nor can the bands that bind it on me rust
Or break, nor ever shall I be set free.
Sometimes 't is heavy as the weight that bore
Atlas on giant shoulders; sometimes light
As the frail message of the carrier dove;
But, light or heavy, shifting nevermore.
What is it thus oppressing, day and night?

I am afraid to
put my love into words.
Wine loses its bouquet
when poured out of its jug.

Here lies the Reverend Jonathan Doe,
Where he has gone to I don't know:
If haply to the realms above,
Farewell to happiness and love.
If haply to a lower level,
I can't congratulate the Devil.

Encinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress,
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
The moon was bright, the air was free,

And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.

It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more beloved than day.
But who that beauteous Boy beguiled,
That beauteous Boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,

Do not, O do not prize thy beauty at too high a rate;
Love to be loved whilst thou art lovely, lest thou love too late.
Frowns print wrinkles in thy brows,
At which spiteful age doth smile,
Women in their froward vows
Glorying to beguile.

Wert thou the only world's-admired, thou canst love but one;
And many have before been loved, thou art not loved alone.
Couldst thou speak with heavenly grace,
Sappho might with thee compare;
Blush the roses in thy face,
Rosamund was as fair.

Pride is the canker that consumeth beauty in her prime.