love poetry

Shunning human sight, like a thief in the night,
Eleimon made no delay,
But went unto a Pagan's tomb
Beside the public way.
Enclosed with barren elms it stood,
There planted when the dead
Within the last abode of man
Had been deposited.
And thrice ten years those barren trees,
Enjoying light and air,
Had grown and flourish'd, while the dead
In darkness moulder'd there.
Long had they overtopp'd the tomb;
And closed was now that upper room
Where friends were wont to pour,
Upon the honor'd dust below,

A youth hath enter'd the Sorcerer's door,
But he dares not lift his eye,
For his knees fail, and his flesh quakes,
And his heart beats audibly.

" Look up, young man! " the Sorcerer said;
" Lay open thy wishes to me!
Or art thou too modest to tell thy tale?
If so, I can tell it thee.

" Thy name is Eleimon;
Proterius's freedman thou art;
And on Cyra, thy Master's daughter,
Thou hast madly fix'd thy heart.

" But fearing (as thou well mayest fear!)
The high-born Maid to woo,

Being in thought of love, I chanced to see
Two youthful damozels.
One sang: " Our life inhales
All love continually."

Their aspect was so utterly serene,
So courteous, of such quiet nobleness,
That I said to them: " Yours, I may well ween,
'Tis of all virtue to unlock the place.
Ah! damozels, do not account him base
Whom thus his wound subdues:
Since I was at Thoulouse,
My heart is dead in me."

They turned their eyes upon me in so much
As to perceive how wounded was my heart;

Thy lovely saints do bring Thee love,
Incense and joy and gold;
Fair star with star, fair dove with dove,
Beloved by Thee of old.
I, Master, neither star nor dove,
Have brought Thee sins and tears;
Yet I too bring a little love
Amid my flaws and fears.
A trembling love that faints and fails
Yet still is love of Thee,
A wondering love that hopes and hails
Thy boundless Love of me;
Love kindling faith and pure desire,
Love following on to bliss,
A spark, O Jesus, from Thy fire,
A drop from Thine abyss.

The rhyme o' The Raggedy Man's 'at's best
Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,
'Cause that-un's the strangest of all o' the rest,
An' the worst to learn, an' the last one guessed,
An' the funniest one, an' the foolishest. —
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!

I don't know what in the world it means —
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs! —

Loud sung the wind in the ruins above
Which murmured the warnings of time o'er our head,
While fearless we offered devotions to love,
The rude rock our pillow, the rushes our bed!

Damp was the chill of the wintery air,
But it made us cling closer, and warmly unite;
Dread was the lightning, and horrid its glare,
But it showed me my Julia in languid delight.

To my bosom she nestled and felt not a fear
Though the shower did beat and the tempest did frown;
Her sighs were as sweet and her murmurs as dear

I dreamed again, and lo, a solemn glory
Transfigured earth and sea;
The vibrant universe revealed a story
Of love and power to me.
Oh, never was such light on earth beholden,
Save when the sacred gleam,
Upon the spirits of the seers olden,
Breathed mystery and dream.

I think that haply angel hands had chanced
The door of some bright zone
Of heaven to open, so to me there glanced
The radiance of the throne.
'Twas not as earth-light that must go unbending
Into the fields afar,

I dreamed that I was God, the great All-seeing;
The ceaseless urge was mine
That fires the throbbing, blood-red heart of Being,
The Alchemist divine.
I saw and knew that lesser good is evil,
The evil lesser good;
That love can change the basest hell-upheaval
To human brotherhood.

I heard the tramp of onward-marching nations,
I saw their mirth and tears;
I felt the passions of the generations
That thundered down the years;
I clashed as foe with foeman, fire-hearted,
I heard the war-guns boom,

A QUARRELI WITH LOUE

O H that I could write a story
Of Loues dealing with affection:
How hee makes the spirit sory,
That is toucht with his infection.

But he doth so closely winde him
In the plaits of will ill pleased,
That the heart can neuer finde him
Till it be too much diseased.

Tis a subtill kinde of spirit,
Of a venome kinde of nature;
That can like a conny ferret,
Creepe vnwares vpon a creature.

Neuer eye that can beholde it,

A FAREWELL TO CONCEIPT

Farewell Conceit: Coceit no more wel fare:
Hope feeds the heart with humours, to no end:
Fortune is false, in dealing of her share:
Virtue in heauen must only seeke a friend.

Adieu, Desire. Desire, no more adieu
Will hath no leasure to regard desart:
Love findes, too late, the prouerbe all too true,
That Beauties eyes stoode neuer in her heart.

Away, poore Loue. Loue, seek no more a way
Vnto thy woe, where wishing is no wealth: