Blanch swears her Husband's lovely; when a scald
Has blear'd his eyes: Besides, his head is bald.
Next, his wilde eares, like Lethern wings full spread,
Flutter to flie, and beare away his head.

My dear and only Love, I pray
—This noble world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
—But purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part,
—Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
—I 'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
—And I will reign alone:
My thoughts shall evermore disdain
—A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
—Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch
—To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still,
—And always give the law,

So feckless a hope—
that the moon
crossing the sky
would be enough
to keep us
in the same world—
held together

Our pledge
of love—
is as the dew
of evening
hanging on grasses
withered
by the winds
blowing
at the far edge
of autumn fields.

Love for ever dwells in Heaven,
Hope entereth not there.
To despairing man Love's given,
Hope dwells not with despair.
Love reigneth high, and reigneth low, and reigneth everywhere.

In the inmost heart Love dwelleth,
It may not quenchèd be;
E'en when the life-blood welleth
Its fond effects we see.
In the name that leaves the lips the last, fades last from memory.

And when we shall awaken
Ascending to the sky,
Tho' Hope shall have forsaken,
Sweet Love shall never die.

Love hath querulous grown and sad—
We should have parted yesterday;
A wistful lass and a tender lad—
Pity it was we chose to stay.

Over-long was the joy we had—
Why we wearied what man may say?
Love hath querulous grown and sad—
We should have parted yesterday.

O, to have said when hearts were glad,
“Kiss me and go,” as lovers may.
Now we sneer that the dream was mad.
Now we sneer that the dream was mad,
Yawn and wonder and turn away.
Love hath querulous grown and sad—
We should have parted yesterday.

Oh my love and my own own deary!
What shall I do? my love is weary.
Sleep, O friend, on soft downy pillow,
Pass, O friend, as wind or as billow,
And I'll wear the willow.

No stone at his head be set,
A swelling turf be his coverlet
Bound round with a graveyard wattle;
Hedged round from the trampling cattle
And the children's prattle.

I myself, instead of a stone,
Will sit by him to dwindle and moan;
Sit and weep with a bitter weeping,
Sit and weep where my love lies sleeping
While my life goes creeping.

My love is like the snarl of haughty drums
And blare of trumpets, when a great one comes
Down some thronged breathless city thoroughfare:
And yours is like a song that fills the air
Of evening when the dew has made it sweet
And Peace walks through the dusk with quiet feet.

My love is like the visual shout of red
That threads the drowsing of a poppy bed
In summer, when the sun makes heavy heat:
And yours is like the white flower, cool and sweet,
That fills the shadow with a pleasant scent,
Unshrivelled by the sun and well content.

A Pleasing sadness thrills the pensive soul,
Each pulse attentive beats with motion slow;
Now quickly chang'd, conflicting passions roll,
And ev'ry nerve with new sensations glow.

“Now, Jaffier, now!” the lovely mourner cries,
“'Tis Belvidera courts the pointed steel;
Now, my best love, thy Belvidera dies,
Strike while thy bosom ev'ry fear conceal.”

Phrenzy recoils, and love holds sov'reign sway,
Affection hurls aside the erring dart;
And he that could his gen'rous friend betray,
Acts—nobly acts—the friend and lover's part.

Silver-green lanterns tossing among windy branches:
So an old man thinks
Of the loves of his youth.