Love taking leave, my heart then leaveth me,
And is enamour'd even while it would shun;
For I have looked so long upon the sun
That the sun's glory is now in all I see.
To its first will unwilling may not be
This heart (though by its will its death be won),
Having remembrance of the joy forerun:
Yea, all life else seems dying constantly.
Ay and alas! in love is no relief,
For any man who loveth in full heart,
That is not rather grief than gratefulness.
Whoso desires it, the beginning is grief;

If , as thou say'st, thy love tormenteth thee,
That thou thereby wast in the fear of death,
Messer Onesto, couldst thou bear to be
Far from Love's self, and breathing other breath?
Nay, thou wouldst pass beyond the greater sea
(I do not speak of the Alps, an easy path),
For thy life's gladdening; if so to see
That light which for my life no comfort hath,
But rather makes my grief the bitterer:

Of man's delight and man's desire
In one thing is no weariness —
To feel the fury of the fire,
And writhe within the close caress
Of fierce embrace, and wanton kiss,
And final nuptial done aright,
How sweet a passion, shame, is this,
A strong man's love is my delight!

Free women cast a lustful eye
On my gigantic charms, and seek
By word and touch with me to lie,

Earth has borne a little son,
He is a very little one,
He wears a bib all frilled with green
Around his neck to keep him clean.
Though before another Spring
A thousand children Earth may bring
Forth to bud and blossoming —
Lily daughters, cool and slender,
Roses, passionate and tender,
Tulip sons as brave as swords,
Hollyhocks, like laughing lords,
Yet she'll never love them quite
As much as she loves Aconite:
Aconite, the first of all,
Who is so very, very small,
Who is so golden-haired and good,

Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
That at the whisper of Love's name,
Or Beauty's, presto! up you raise
Your angry head and stand at gaze?

Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reach
The ravelin and effect a breach —
Indifferent what you storm or why,
So be that in the breach you die!

Love may be blind, but Love at least
Knows what is man and what mere beast;
Or Beauty wayward, but requires
More delicacy from her squires.

Tell me, my witless, whose one boast
Could be your staunchness at the post,

Down Newport Street, last Sunday night,
Bill stabbed his sweetheart in the breast:
She screamed and fell, a dreadful sight,
And Bill strode on like one possessed.

O Love's a curse to them that's young;
'Twas all because of love and drink;
Why couldn't the silly hold her tongue,
Or stop, before she spoke, to think?

She played with fire, did pretty Nell,
So Bill must hang ere summer's here:
Christ, what a crowd are sent to Hell
Through love, and poverty and beer!

Do you love me
Or do you not?
You told me once

Do I love thee? Ask the bee
If she loves the flowery lea,
Where the honeysuckle blows
And the fragrant clover grows.
——As she answers, Yes or No,
——Darling! take my answer so.

Do I love thee? Ask the bird
When her matin song is heard,
If she loves the sky so fair,
Fleecy cloud and liquid air.
——As she answers, Yes or No,
——Darling! take my answer so.

Do I love thee? Ask the flower
If she loves the vernal shower,
Or the kisses of the sun,
Or the dew, when day is done.
——As she answers, Yes or No,

Disrobe, my love.
Since it has been such
a long time since the time
of miracles. Disrobe.
And let miracles begin.
I am speechless
before you.
Your body speaks all languages.

The dim light to the sou'ward
Is the beacon of the coast,
But the white light to the leeward
The mariner loves most.
And whether 'tis the dim light
Or the white light to the lee,
That great big hunk of daylight
Is light of lights for me.
But what it is of all lights
That fills my soul with glee,
Is when that hunk of daylight
Climbs up out of the sea.