That century to century may tell
The perfect love Ronsard once bore to you,
How he was reason-reft for love of you
And thought it freedom in your chains to dwell;

That age on age posterity full well
May know my veins were filled with beauty of you
And that my heart's one wish was only you,
I bring for gift to you this immortelle.

Long will it live in freshness of its prime.
And you shall live, through me, long after death —
So can the well-skilled lover conquer Time,

Who loving you all virtue followeth.

Where art thou at this moment, love?—what doing,
What saying, thinking?—Dost thou think of me?
Hast thou no care for my hard agony,
Though care for thee still houndeth me, renewing.

My pain, and all my heart with love subduing?—
Absent, I hear thee speak, and speak to thee.
Thy form so present in my mind I see,
No thought can harbor there of other wooing.

I hold thine eyes, thy beauty, and thy grace
Engraven on my heart—and every place
Where e'er I saw thee dance, laugh, speak, or move.

The better you know of my true love's throe,
The more you fly me,
My cruel one;
The more I woo you, the more pursue you,
The more you defy me,
The less are won.

Then shall I leave you? Though 'twould not grieve you,
Alas! believe me
I'm not so brave!
Yet I'll bless the hour of Death's full power
If you'll receive me
To die your slave.

How comely is our motherland,
With joy for every eye!
O'er sunlit vales her mountains stand,
Her prairies kiss the sky.
From many an autumn-bordered lake
Her fair streams seek the shore.
We love her for her beauty's sake,
But most for something more.

What vigor in her throb and tread!
How dauntless is her mind!
She plants that continents be fed,
And never looks behind.
The magic of her lamp and tower
O'ermates Aladdin's lore.
We love her for her bounteous power,
But most for something more.

To love none , all to doubt , to fawn, to flatter,
 To form new faces , and transform true hearts ,
To offer service, and forget the matter,
 Are courtier's principles and practis'd arts.

See thou, my joy, my care,
How many a wondrous thing
In me thou art perfecting
Through beauties beyond compare:

So utterly thine eyes,
Thy laughter and thy grace,
Thy brow, thy hair, thy face
Fashioned in angel's guise,

Do burn me, since the day
When first I knew thereof,
Longing with passion of love
To win them in love's sweet way,

That but for the saving tears
My life is bedewed withal,
Long since beyond recall
'Twere wasted by heat that sears.

And yet thy beauteous eyes,

As the young stag, when lusty Spring supreme
O'er Winter's biting cold at last prevails,
To crop the honeyed leafage seeks new trails
And leaves his dear retreat at dawn's first gleam;

Alone, secure, afar (as he may deem)
From bay of hounds, or hunters' echoing hails,
Now on the mountain-slopes, now in the vales,
Now by the waters of a secret stream,

He wantons freely, at his own sweet will,
Knowing no fear of net or bow, until,
Pierced with one dart, he lies dead in his pride —

Even so I wandered, with no thought of woe,

To think one thought a hundred hundred ways,
'Neath two loved eyes to lay your heart quite bare,
To drink the bitter liquor of despair
And eat forever ashes of lost days—

In spirit and flesh to know youth's bloom decays,
To die of pain, yet swear no pain is there,
The more you sue, to move the less your fair,
Yet make her wish, the law your life obeys—

Anger that passes, faith that cannot move;
Far dearer than yourself your foe to love;
To build a thousand vain imaginings,

To long to plead, yet fear to voice a breath,

P ERRAULT the Frenchman needs would prove
The ancients knew not how to love ;
Yet spite of all that he has said,
'Tis sure they wo'd , and won and wed ;
The case beyond dispute is clear,
Or else, how came the MODERNS here?

Maker of love and longing!
Thou fountain of our tears!
When in one night come thronging
The memories of years,
God of the fallen sparrow!
God of the mateless dove!
Give to her lonely sorrow
The solace of Thy love.