Lovely thing to see:, A
through the paper window's hole,
the Galaxy.

LOVE

An old Egyptian monarch, when his arms
Had girt the world, or what he knew thereof,
Wrote on his tomb, " All bow to woman's charms,
The greatest conquerer of the earth is Love. "

When Love flies in,
Make — make no sign;
Owl-soft his wings,
Sand-blind his eyne;
Sigh, if thou must,
But seal him thine.

Nor make no sign
If love flit out;
He'll tire of thee
Without a doubt.
Stifle thy pangs;
Thy heart resign;
And live without!

I strove with none for none was worth my strife;
Reason I loved, and next to reason, doubt;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life
And put it out.

Love is not blind. I see with single eye
Your ugliness and other women's grace.
I know the imperfection of your face, —
The eyes too wide apart, the brow too high
For beauty. Learned from earliest youth am I
In loveliness, and cannot so erase
Its letters from my mind, that I may trace
You faultless, I must love until I die.
More subtle is the sovereignty of love:
So am I caught that when I say, " Not fair, "
'Tis but as if I said, " Not here — not there —
Not risen — not writing letters. " Well I know

The wind blows out of the west,
The wind is merry and free;
It brings fair weather for us, love,
Fair weather for thee and me.

The sun shines out of the east,
And dances over the sea;
The world's aglitter for us, love,
Aglitter for thee and me.

And now the world's a-dusk,
The nest unstirred on the tree;
The fair moon hangs at its full, love,
And shineth for thee and me.

Toss not my soul, O Love, 'twixt hope and fear.
Show me some ground where I may firmly stand
Or surely fall; I care not which appear,
So one will close me in a certain band.

Take me, Assurance, to thy blissful hold,
Or thou, Despair, unto thy darkest cell.
Each hath full rest, the one in joys enrolled,
Th'other, in that he fears no more, is well.

Ye captive souls of blindfold Cyprian's boat,
Mark with advice in what estate ye stand:
Your boatman never whistles merry note,
And Folly keeping stern, still puts from land,
And makes a sport to toss you to and fro
Twixt sighing winds and surging waves of woe.

On Beauty's rock she runs you at her will,
And holds you in suspense twixt hope and fear,
Where dying oft, yet are you living still,
But such a life as death much better were.
Be therefore circumspect, and follow me,
When chance or change of manners sets you free.

Thou art too hard for me in Love:
There is no dealing with thee in that Art:
That is thy Masterpiece I see.
When I contrive and plot to prove
Something that may be conquest on my part
Thou still, O Lord, outstrippest me.

Sometimes, when as I wash, I say
And shrewdly, as I think, Lord wash my soul
More spotted than my flesh can be.
But then there comes into my way
Thy ancient baptism, which when I was foul
And knew it not, yet cleansed me.

I took a time when thou didst sleep,
Great waves of trouble combating my breast:

Senful man, bethink and see
What peine I thole for love of thee.
Night and day to thee I grede,
Hand and fotes on rode isprede.
Nailed I was to the tree,
Ded and biried, man, for thee;
All this I drey for love of man.
But werse me dot, that he ne can
To me turnen onis his eye
Than all the peine that I drye.