Unlyric Love Song

It is time to give that-of-myself which I could not at first:To offer you now at last my least and my worst:Minor, absurd preserves,The shell's end-curves,A document kept at the back of a drawer,A tin hidden under the floor,Recalcitrant prides and hesitations:To pile them carefully in a desparate oblationAnd say to you "quickly! turn themOnce over and burn them".Now I (no communist, heaven knows!

My True Love Hath My Heart, And I Have His

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,By just exchange, one for the other giv'n.I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;There never was a better bargain driv'n.His heart in me keeps me and him in one,My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;He loves my heart, for once it was his own;I cherish his, because in me it bides.His heart his wound received from my sight:My heart was wounded

A Widow Bird Sate Mourning For Her Love

A widow bird sate mourning for her LoveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above,The freezing stream below.There was no leaf upon the forest bare,No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the airExcept the mill-wheel's sound.

Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever, longing still

My love is as a fever, longing stillFor that which longer nurseth the disease,Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.My reason, the physician to my love,Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,Hath left me, and I desperate now approveDesire is death, which physic did except.Past cure I am, now reason is past care,And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

Sonnet 148: O me! what eyes hath love put in my head

O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,Which have no correspondence with true sight!Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,That censures falsely what they see aright?If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,What means the world to say it is not so?If it be not, then love doth well denoteLove's eye is not so true as all men's "no."How can it? O, how can love's eye be true,That is so vexed

Sonnet 149: Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not

Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,When I against my self with thee partake?Do I not think on thee when I forgotAm of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spendRevenge upon my self with present moan?What merit do I in my self respect,That is so proud thy service to despise,

Sonnet 151: Love is too young to know what conscience is

Love is too young to know what conscience is;Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove.For thou betraying me, I do betrayMy nobler part to my gross body's treason;My soul doth tell my body that he mayTriumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,But, rising at thy name, doth point out theeAs his triumphant

Sonnet 154: The little Love-god lying once asleep

The little love god lying once asleepLaid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keepCame tripping by; but in her maiden hand,The fairest votary took up that fireWhich many legions of true hearts had warmed,And so the general of hot desireWas sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed.This brand she quenched in a cool well by,Which from Love's fire took heat

Sonnet 26: Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalageThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,To thee I send this written embassageTo witness duty, not to show my wit—Duty so great, which wit so poor as mineMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,But that I hope some good conceit of thineIn thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;Till whatsoever star that guides my movingPoints on me graciously with

Sonnet 41: I thank all who have loved me in their hearts

XLI


I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,

With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all

Who paused a little near the prison-wall

To hear my music in its louder parts

Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's

Or temple's occupation, beyond call.

But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall

When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's

Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot

Sonnet 27: My own Beloved, who hast lifted me

My own Beloved, who hast lifted me

From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,

And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown

A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully

Shines out again, as all the angels see,

Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,

Who camest to me when the world was gone,

And I who looked for only God, found thee!

I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.

As one

Sonnet 11: And therefore if to love can be desert

And therefore if to love can be desert,

I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale

As these you see, and trembling knees that fail

To bear the burden of a heavy heart,

This weary minstrel-life that once was girt

To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail

To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale

A melancholy music, 'why advert

To these things? O Beloved, it is plain

I am not of thy worth nor for

Why do I love You, Sir?

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
Because --
The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer -- Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows -- and
Do not You --
And We know not --
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so --

The Lightning -- never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut -- when He was by --
Because He knows it cannot speak --
And reasons not contained --
-- Of Talk --
There be --

Twas Love -- not me, poem by Emily Dickinson

'Twas Love -- not me --
Oh punish -- pray --
The Real one died for Thee --
Just Him -- not me --

Such Guilt -- to love Thee -- most!
Doom it beyond the Rest --
Forgive it -- last --
'Twas base as Jesus -- most!

Let Justice not mistake --
We Two -- looked so alike --
Which was the Guilty Sake --
'Twas Love's -- Now Strike!

Because He loves Her, by Emily Dickinson

Because He loves Her
We will pry and see if she is fair
What difference is on her Face
From Features others wear.

It will not harm her magic pace
That we so far behind --
Her Distances propitiate
As Forests touch the Wind

Not hoping for his notice vast
But nearer to adore
'Tis Glory's far sufficiency
That makes our trying poor.

And because Love battles, poem by Pablo Neruda

And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures
but also in the mouth of men and women,
I will finish off by taking the path away
to those who between my chest and your fragrance
want to interpose their obscure plant.

About me, nothing worse
they will tell you, my love,
than what I told you.

I lived in the prairies
before I got to know you
and I did not wait love but I was

The Life of Love XVI

SpringCome, my beloved; let us walk amidst the knolls, For the snow is water, and Life is alive from its Slumber and is roaming the hills and valleys. Let us follow the footprints of Spring into the Distant fields, and mount the hilltops to draw Inspiration high above the cool green plains. Dawn of Spring has unfolded her winter-kept garment And placed it on the peach and citrus trees; and They

Song: The Charms of Lovely Davies

O HOW shall I, unskilful, try
The poet's occupation?
The tuneful powers, in happy hours,
That whisper inspiration;
Even they maun dare an effort mair
Than aught they ever gave us,
Ere they rehearse, in equal verse,
The charms of lovely Davies.

Each eye it cheers when she appears,
Like Phoebus in the morning,
When past the shower, and every flower
The garden is adorning:
As the wretch looks o'er

Friendship After Love

After the fierce midsummer all ablazeHas burned itself to ashes, and expiresIn the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin daysCrowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.So after Love has led us, till he tiresOf his own throes, and torments, and desires, Comes large-eyed Friendship: with a restful gaze.He beckons us to follow, and acrossCool verdant vales we

By All Love's Soft, Yet Mighty Powers

By all love's soft, yet mighty powers,It is a thing unfit,That men should fuck in time of flowers,Or when the smock's beshit.Fair nasty nymph, be clean and kind,And all my joys restore;By using paper still behind,And sponges for before.My spotless flames can ne'er decay,If after every close,My smoking prick escape the fray,Without a bloody nose.If thou would have me true, be wise,And take to