He whom God had thus preferred
To whom sweet angels ministered
Wrapped him in love as in a cloud
Their gifts bestowed, their love avowed,
Saluted him each morn as Brother
[ ] to each other

Malcolm, I love thee more than women love
And pure and warm and equal is the feeling
Which binds us and our destinies forever
But there are seasons in the change of times
When strong excitement kindles up the light
Of ancient memories

Unto that love must we through fire attain,
Which those two held as breath of common air;
The hands of whom were given in bond elsewhere;
Whom Honour was untroubled to restrain.

Midway the road of our life's term they met,
And one another knew without surprise;
Nor cared that beauty stood in mutual eyes;
Nor at their tardy meeting nursed regret.

To them it was revealed how they had found
The kindred nature and the needed mind;
The mate by long conspiracy designed;
The flower to plant in sanctuary ground.

Avowed in vigilant solicitude

CCLXIV

Fortune, what aileth thee
Thus for to banish me
Her company whom I love best?
For to complain me
Nothing availeth me.
Adieu, farewell, this night's rest.

Her demure countenance,
Her homely patience
Hath wounded me through Venus' dart,
That I cannot refrain me
Neither yet abstain me
But needs must love her with all my heart.

Long have I loved her,
Oft have I prayed her.
Yet, alas, she through disdain
Nothing regards me
Nor yet rewards me
But lets me lie in mortal pain.

CCLXII

Love hath again
Put me to pain
And yet all is but lost.
I serve in vain
And am certain
Of all misliked most.

Both heat and cold
Doth so me hold
And cumbers so my mind
That, when I should
Speak and be bold,
It draweth me still behind.

My wits be past,
My life doth waste,
My comfort is exiled.
And I in haste
Am like to taste
How love hath me beguiled.

Unless that right
May in her sight
Obtain pity and grace,
Why should a wight
Have beauty bright

CCL

Love whom ye list and spare not;
Therewith I am content.
Hate whom ye list for I care not,
For I am indifferent.

Do what ye list and dread not
After your own fancy.
Think what you list and fear not
For all is one to me.

But as for me I am not
Wavering as the wind
But even as one that recketh not
Which way ye turn your mind.

For in your love I dote not,
[Though you think I am caught.]
Whether you hate or hate not
Is least charge of my thought.

Wherefore I pray you forget not

CCXLVII

I have been a lover
Full long and many days
And oft-times a prover
Of the most painful ways.
But all that I have passed
As trifles to this last.

By proof I know the pain
Of them that sue and serve
And nothing can attain
Of that which they deserve.
But those pangs have I passed
As trifles to this last.

I have ere this been thrall
And durst it never show
But glad to suffer all
And so to cloak my woe.
Yet that pang have I passed
As trifles to this last.

By length of time ere now

No, no, the falling blossom is no sign
Of loveliness destroy'd and sorrow mute;
The blossom sheds its loveliness divine; —
Its mission is to prophecy the fruit.

Nor is the day of love for ever dead,
When young enchantment and romance are gone;
The veil is drawn, but all the future dread
Is lightened by the finger of the dawn.

Love moves with life along a darker way,
They cast a shadow and they call it death:
But rich is the fulfilment of their day;
The purer passion and the firmer faith.

CLXVI

My love is like unto th'eternal fire
And I as those which therein do remain
Whose grievous pains is but their great desire
To see the sight which they may not attain.
So in hell's heat myself I feel to be
That am restrained by great extremity
The sight of her which is so dear to me.
O puissant love and power of great avail
By whom hell may be felt or death assail!

I cannot lose thee for a day,
But like a bird with restless wing,
My heart will find thee far away,
And on thy bosom fall and sing,
My nest is here, my rest is here; —
And in the lull of wind and rain,
Fresh voices make a sweet refrain,
" His rest is there, his nest is there."

With thee the wind and sky are fair,
But parted, both are strange and dark;
And treacherous the quiet air
That holds me singing like a lark,
O shield my love, strong arm above!
Till in the rush of wind and rain,