love poetry

XXII
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest,

XIX
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

How long shall in mine affliction mourne,
A burthen to my selfe, distrest in minde?
When shall my interdicted hopes returne
From out dispaire wherein they live confin'd?
When shall her troubled brow, charg'd with disdaine,
Reveale the treasure which her smyles impart?
When shall my faith the happines attaine,
To breake the Ise that hath congeald her hart?
Unto herselfe, herselfe my love doth sommon,
(If love in her hath any power to move)
And let her tell me as shee is a woman,

Since the first looke that led me to this error,
To this thoughts-maze, to my confusion tending,
Still have I liv'd in griefe, in hope, in terror,
The circle of my sorrowes never ending,
Yet cannot leave her love that holds me hatefull;
Her eyes exact it, though her hart disdaines me:
See what reward he hath that serves th'ungrateful;
So true and loyall love no favour gaines mee.
Still must I whet my young desires abated
Upon the Flint of such a hart rebelling;
And all in vaine; her pride is so innated,

Those snary locks are those same nets (my Deere)
Where-with my libertie thou didst surprize:
Love was the flame that fired me so neere;
The Dart transpearsing were those Christall eyes.
Strong is the net and fervent is the flame;
Deepe is the wounde, my sighes doe well report:
Yet doe I love, adore, and praise the same
That holds, that burnes, that wounds me in this sort.

My spotlesse love hoovers with purest wings
About the temple of the proudest frame,
Where blaze those lights, fayrest of earthly things,
Which cleer our clowded world with brightest flame.
M'ambitious thoughts, confined in her face,
Affect no honour but what she can give:
My hopes doe rest in limits of her grace;
I weigh no comfort unlesse she relieve
For she that can my hart imparadize,
Holds in her fairest hand what deerest is:
My fortune's wheele's the circle of her eyes,

If thys be love, to draw a weary breath,
Paint on floods, till the shore, cry to th'ayre;
With downward lookes still reading on the earth
The sad memorials of my love's despayre:
If this be love, to warre against my soule,
Lye downe to waile, rise up to sigh and grieve;
The never-resting stone of care to roule,
Still to complaine my griefes, whilst none relieve:
If this be love, to cloathe me with darke thoughts,
Haunting untroden pathes to waile apart;
My pleasures, horror; Musique, tragick notes;

The world is ours again —
Ours is the heavenly rout —
For, as the healing rain
Freshens the rose,
Sadness has made us whole
After the bitter drought,
And the despairing soul
Blossoms and glows.
Sing, heart, sing, lips, sing, promise of the morrow,
Love is not Love that has not tasted sorrow.

All, all is ours again —
The hour with wonder fraught —
The passions near to pain

" Love's a garment only meant
For the minstrel and romancer. "
This is all that she has sent
To my pleadings as an answer.

How the words come back again,
Still as careless, still as bitter —
Like a harsh and mocking strain
Played upon a tinkling zither.

Like a prisoner chained alone,
Dullness binds me, wrist and ankle —
All the evil thoughts are gone

Night, sing to her
All of thy songs.
Night, bring to her
Dreams that will cling to her,
Dreams that will move her with tears for my wrongs.
Night, sing to her.

Night, care for her —
All of her sins,
Night, bear for her —
Beauty's a prayer for her,
Beauty's a prayer which she ends and begins —
Night, care for her.

Night, sing to her
All that has lain
Like a dead thing to her —