Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:
And love is fire. And when I say at need
I love thee ... mark! ... I love thee — in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright,
With conscience of the new rays that proceed
Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures
Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel , across the inferior features

The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;

A SCEND , my Muse, on sorrow's sable plume,
Let the soft number meet the swelling sigh;
With laureated chaplets deck the tomb,
The blood-stained tomb where Smith and comfort lie.

I loved him with a brother's ardent love,
Beyond the love which tenderest brothers bear;
Though savage kindred bosoms cannot move,
Friendship shall deck his urn and pay the tear.

Despised, an alien to thy father's breast,
Thy ready services repaid with hate;
By brother, father, sisters, all distressed,
They pushed thee on to death, they urged thy fate.

H ERRICK and H ORACE Rewrite the Latter's 22nd Ode, Book I.

Fuscus, dear friend,
I prithee lend
An ear for but a space,
And thou shalt see
How Love may be
A more than saving grace.

As on a day
I chanced to stray
Beyond my own confines
Singing, perdie,
Of Lalage
Whose smile no star outshines —

P. B. S HELLEY and L AURENCE Hope Meet in a Pantoum .

I swoon, I sink, I fall —
Your beauty overpowers me;
I am a prey to all
The yearning that devours me.

Your beauty overpowers me —
It never gives me rest;
The yearning that devours me
Is loud within my breast.

It never gives me rest.
And tho' a wilder ringing
Is loud within my breast,
I have no heart for singing.

A NDREW Lang and O SCAR W ILDE Turn a Nursery Rhyme into a Rondeau Redouble .

Curly locks, Curly locks, wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine,
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream.

Curly-locks, Curly-locks, brighten and beam
Joyous assent with a rapturous sign;
Hasten the Vision — quicken the Dream —
Curly-locks, Curly-locks, wilt thou be mine?

Curly-locks, Curly-locks; come, do not deem

H EINRICH H EINE and C LINTON S COLLARD Construct a Rondeau.

Immortal eyes, why do they never die?
They come between me and the cheerful sky
And take the place of every sphinx-like star.
They haunt me always, always; and they mar
The comfort of my sleek tranquility.

In dreams you lean your cheek on mine and sigh;
And all the old, caressing words float by.
They haunt me always, always; yet they are
Immortal lies.

The Landgrave's gilded hall was all bedecked
In preparation for the minstrel knights
Who would contest in skill upon the harp.
Though named were all contestants long before,
Tannhauser's name was added to the list
In recognition of his marvelous skill
And, too, in honor of his coming home.
Before the minstrel hour the princess, fair
Elizabeth, came in the hall to feast
Her eyes upon the place where, long before,
Tannhauser's harp and voice awoke her heart
To such fond sympathy and ardent love.
When now at last he had returned her heart

The king of all the Gods once burned with love
for Ganymede of Phrygia. He found
a shape more pleasing even than his own.
Jove would not take the form of any bird,
except the eagle's, able to sustain
the weight of his own thunderbolts. Without
delay, Jove on fictitious eagle wings,
stole and flew off with that loved Trojan boy:
who even to this day, against the will
of Juno, mingles nectar in the cups
of his protector, mighty Jupiter.

Thou hearest the Nightingale begin the Song of Spring;

The lark sitting upon his earthy bed, just as the morn
Appears, listens silent, then springing from the waving Corn-field, loud
He leads the Choir of Day--
Mounting upon the wing of light into the Great Expanse,
Re-echoing against the lovely blue and shining heavenly Shell,

His little throat labours with inspiration, every feather
On throat and breast and wings vibrates with the effluence Divine.
All nature listens silent to him, and the awful Sun