SINCE on thy form hath beauty laid its hand,
 And set its snare for thee and me likewise,
 Yet taught thee the Soul’s beauty to despise;
 And given thee no power to understand
 The reason or the influence that planned
 The depth of life, yet still to temporize;
 How is such wanton thought to harmonize
 With love’s fierce fire by my strong passion fanned?
 O! Waste not then thy beauty in its youth;
 But turn it to account, lest thine own end
 Shall find thee, left without an hair or tooth,
 All stripped of nature’s charm, which now may lend
 Its power, for thee to reproduce the truth
 Of that same beauty thou wouldst lightly spend.

XCVII

IN those brief moments when thou wert my own,
 I drank a poison deadlier to my heart
 Than that which toucheth every vital part,
 And causeth man to tremble and to moan
 Until the seeds of death be fairly sown,
 And he in palsied attitude doth start
 To rise, before his spirit shall depart,
 And utter on this earth its final groan.
 That poison was love’s undisguised belief
 That I had found eternal happiness,
 True freedom from all ill, and true relief
 From weary waiting and from loneliness.
 Ah! Cruel fate! Thou gavest but new grief,
 When I believed that Heaven my life would bless!

XCVIII

LET not thy beauty serve thee in the guise
 Of some dark power, as it hath in the past.
 Make for thyself some beauty that may last,
 And for thy friends some gratitude likewise.
 Best that they should applaud thee to the skies,
 Than in old age thou shouldst aside be cast,
 And when thou diest be but death’s repast:
 Nought but cold clay (from which the soul should rise).
 Forget not that thy flesh must soon expire,
 And thy youth’s veil from off thy face be torn.
 Then must thou from deception soon retire,
 When outward beauty is by time outworn.
 Oh! I would see thy soul by love reborn:
 Thou for thyself; I for my heart’s desire.

XCIX

WHEN I alone unto my chamber go,
 To fold the shroud of night about my heart,
 And mourn an empty day that doth depart;
 And with sad thought compose my spirit so;
 There cometh to me the dear form I know;
 And, conjured with imagination’s art,
 It bringeth thee, so living, that I start;
 And my glad tears upon thy bosom flow.
 But oh, for shame! That not thyself entire
 Be mine, as thou shouldst be, instead of this!
 On earth both flesh and spirit hold empire,
 Wherein is man the vassal of a kiss.
 Yet nature must I thank, as I retire,
 That though I hold thee not I know thy bliss.

C

WHEN all the world would smile in summer time,
 And bear the train of nature’s equipage;
 And love appeareth, as an appanage,
 To make each lover’s atmosphere sublime;
 Then would I take this pen and form a rhyme,
 That singeth of my three years’ vassalage
 (Still held in love’s unwilling peonage),
 That doth my spirit and my heart begrime.
 For how could love exalt, which hath, for long,
 Reduced me to so destitute a state
 That through each winter I must nurse my wrong,
 Until each spring shall bring thee, all too late?
 And when the summer cometh, my sad song
 Is only to deplore that I must wait.

CI

A LITTLE flower in my garden groweth.
 “Love-in-a-mist” is given as its name.
 Another, of blood hue, beside the same,
 Doth droop and fall upon the wind that bloweth.
 This is the “bleeding heart.” Like mine, it knoweth
 The tragic reason for its early fame,
 By some sad chance, upon the earth it came;
 But soon, though full of bloom, asleep it goeth.
 Two emblems have I in these garden flowers.
 “Love-in-a-mist” thou must be still for me,
 Deep hidden in love’s own mysterious bowers,
 Where, all uncertain, I can scarcely see.
 Yet from my “bleeding heart” I gain new powers,
 Though trampled under foot and crushed by thee.

CII

MY love makes of my life a sad display;
 All full of good desires within me born,
 Like youthful verdure in the early morn;
 Yet by its mischief ruining each day.
 No more have I the courage that shall say:
 “From such poor revenue let me be torn,
 Lest my life’s high estate be basely shorn,
 And I no longer have wherewith to pay.”
 No! still I hold to thy heart’s company,
 That would but seldom grant what I may use,
 Not knowing by what power thou holdest me;
 Yet giving all; that all must still refuse;
 Unless this line be writ upon the sky,
 And bring eternal life to this my muse.

CIII

IF in thyself doth all my love reside;
 And thou, the storehouse of love’s revenue,
 Holdest my happiness in full review;
 In thy dear eyes lies pain for me beside.
 Upon my heart thou ruthlessly dost ride,
 Grown callous to entreaty made anew.
 Though without hope that kindness may ensue,
 Let my blood flow to satisfy thy pride.
 Strange cruelty, enforced by Nature’s child!
 Thou, friendly in thy feeling, but grown cold;
 I, burned with Cupid’s fire and beguiled;
 Thou fearful, I the more by thee made bold;
 Thou, longing to be free, untamed and wild;
 I, young with love, though by its pain grown old.

CIV

THOUGH my true love should be my own undoing,
 In leading me where wisdom may disprove,
 Yet would I choose, in spite of all, to love,
 So I might have the triumph of thy wooing.
 Then might I feel that youth I were renewing;
 My heart’s sad livery for once remove;
 And I might ride through avenues above
 The common path that life hath been pursuing.
 For nought could equal love, my love, with thee;
 Nor could I ever tire of thy praise,
 If thou all that I wish wouldst be to me,
 And my soul unto Heaven wouldst upraise.
 Since in love’s season lovers all agree,
 Then give me back what I lose in thy gaze.

CV

THOUGH thou shouldst not perceive how love in me
 Doth play such havoc with my interest,
 That I am, as with penury, distrest;
 All torn by tragic thought and agony;
 Though thou mayst think it be no harm to see
 Thy lover with love’s wound upon his breast,
 Think not that by denying him ’tis best
 To foster for thyself life’s harmony.
 For though thou mayst deceive thy heart and mine,
 Posterity, by me, thy soul laid bare,
 Shall read the truth within this written line,
 And judge if in thy love thou hast been fair.
 All is, eternal honor may be thine,
 So thou prove not my muse and my despair.

CVI

TO thee all life is but a passing pleasure,
 No deeper than the thought within thy mind;
 And thy short love is of a lighter kind
 Than that which bringeth to my heart its measure.
 How wanton is thy waste of so great treasure!
 And oh, how little value dost thou find!
 How vacant is thy vision, and how blind!
 How empty is thy work, how vain thy leisure!
 Let all thy faults foregather on that day,
 When Love shall touch thee with his magic wand,
 And thou at last unto thyself shall say
 Thy breast is wounded, but thy heart is fond.
 Yet shall I love thy spirit, come what may,
 Though thou be old, and I be far beyond.

CVII

NOT clothed in transient beauty nor pale health,
 Like the night-blooming flower, that displays
 Its fullest glory when the violet rays
 Of sunlight vanish, and, as if by stealth,
 The sable realm of night, the commonwealth
 Of all deceiving things, appears and stays,
 Till day doth swift disperse its tricks and plays:
 Not such art thou, endowed with nature’s wealth.
 But on thy cheek the peach-blush of the sun
 Blends with the russet touch of summer’s hand;
 And in thine eye, fresh youth, that fades not soon,
 Lives in perpetual triumph, that is won
 From country joys, waving their magic wand
 Beneath the sunlit skies or silvery moon.

CVIII

NO mind have I to tell thee all thou art,
 Yet giving half, how can I keep the rest,
 Since, knowing all, I see both worst and best,
 And may not then in truth withhold a part?
 Thy worst is like love’s dagger to my heart;
 Like Satan, in angelic vestment drest,
 That bringeth pain disguised into my breast.
 Such is thy worst. Let me thy best impart.
 Thy best is all thyself, thy beauty’s charm,
 Thy glance, thy smile, thy youth’s fair consciousness,
 Thy power to endear, to twine thine arm
 With subtle grace about love’s deep distress.
 Still, be it worst or best, thou dost me harm,
 Though bringing pleasure with thy soft caress.

CIX

OH, Love doth play such wanton tricks with men,
 That all their frailty is at once revealed,
 However much they wish it were concealed;
 For common wisdom lies beyond their ken.
 Like some slain victim toward a lion’s den,
 So are they led, when once to love they yield.
 The warrior tamed lays by his trusted shield;
 The youth, his youth; old age its reason then.
 In each condition is mankind disturbed,
 Played false, or in unguarded mood surprised,
 Made mad by overjoy, or else perturbed
 Through sudden fear that love must be disguised.
 By some such thought my love alone is curbed,
 The which, I trow, thou hast ere now surmised.

CX

NOT all the years of my uncounted pain
 Could teach me wisdom to myself and thee;
 So I still love, and thou still holdest me;
 Nor all the torture of thy fair disdain
 Wring from thy lips confession, or attain
 The height of misery that love must be
 When, unexpressed, itself it may not free
 From silent thought, or find some speech again.
 Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this,
 That I may find expression on its page;
 Though not the record of its perfect bliss,
 Yet, something of its value to mine age,
 Mixèd with poison from the fatal kiss
 That love still bringeth in its equipage.

CXI

AT least thou canst not say I have not loved,
 Make accusation fit time’s test of me.
 Bring all thy grievance to love’s court, and see
 How truly my devotion hath been proved,
 And what high motive hath my spirit moved.
 Bring all the powers to bear that lie in thee.
 At least thou canst not claim inconstancy
 As comrade to that love by thee disproved.
 For this sad company my soul hath still,
 That is alike companion to my thought,
 Precursor of my fate and fate’s dark will;
 My mendicant desire that thou be brought
 Into my life, my empty heart to fill,
 And there remain; my own and dearly sought.

CXII

OFTEN do I in meditation dream
 That in my garden thou art, with my flowers:
 To watch with me the foxglove, as it towers
 High o’er the feathery fern above the stream.
 The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam.
 The yellow poppies, born in summer hours,
 Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers,
 And nature in a lovely mood would seem.
 So thou, in my imagination, art.
 And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven,
 We twain, like children, each do play a part;
 Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven;
 Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to start
 And leave the goal for which we both have striven.

CXIII

IF thou who readst this verse do find herein
 More tragedy than joyous thought exprest,
 Oh, marvel not, that grief should not be drest
 By me, in bright array, to cloak my sin.
 My sin is love, love which I may not win;
 And by this fact is my heart overprest
 With weight of sorrow, and my soul distrest,
 That I must end where others do begin.
 So, if thou seekest to find within this line
 Enjoyment of a jest, pray put it by.
 ’Tis simply for love’s elegy to twine
 A wreath of myrtle with a lover’s sigh.
 For if this verse were gay, ’twould not be mine,
 Since lacking of my true love’s love am I.

CXIV

YET ne’ertheless would I make holiday;
 Exchange love’s martyrdom; be light of heart;
 Take note of others who enjoy love’s art;
 Make measurable sport of what I may;
 Seek men and women who are blithe and gay;
 Forget the past and love’s more cruel mart,
 Wherein doth sorrow play so large a part;
 And mirror life in a more mirthful way.
 Oh! that I might be now the youth I was,
 Before love’s mastery enslaved my soul:
 Free in my fancy, free from life’s stern laws,
 When love of life alone was my heart’s goal.
 Then hath it need of holiday, because
 For long it heareth nightly love’s dirge toll.

CXV

OH! well have I examined my defect,
 And all my faults and follies, yet anew
 (Knowing, alas, too well, they be not few),
 And marshalled them, that I may thus detect,
 Which fault or folly love doth not protect,
 And which would separate my heart from you.
 From some like cause ’twould seem you must eschew
 This proffered courtship, and my love reject.
 Then tell me, dear, the which I do adjure
 Your honor and your honesty to name.
 For ’tis my right, while my love doth endure,
 To ask if fault or scandal shall proclaim
 Its untoward presence, and your thought allure.
 For lies should not kill love, nor hurt my fame.

CXVI

OH! what a thought hath filled my brain this night,
 And burned my fevered brow, as I suspect
 That all these years, the love thou didst reject
 Was, through strange chance, belittled in thy sight
 By some foul slander or some worldly wight.
 Methinks some poisonous tongue doth intersect
 Both love and friendship, and its shade reflect
 Unseen upon me, like some evil sprite.
 What’s this, that with a start I do behold,
 As darkness cloaks me round in cold embrace?
 Some goblin, born of fear, by fear made bold?
 Some lie that lives, yet dares not show its face?
 Some tale that knows ’tis false as soon as told?
 Such company my love doth poorly grace.

CXVII

AND with the morn, though sunrise shall disperse
 Those phantoms that dark hours oft have sought,
 The spectral visage of some midnight thought
 Doth still unite its poison to my verse.
 In truth, suspicion makes a cruel nurse,
 A poor companion, that the world hath brought
 To tend the soul when, ill and overwrought,
 It reaches by such means a stage still worse.
 Let not my life, then, kill this tree of love,
 Nor canker-worm destroy its fresh green leaf,
 Nor moth devour its foliage from above;
 So that its ruin shatter my belief
 In love’s ideal and Cupid’s vernal grove.
 For love that doth prove false must die of grief.

CXVIII

NOT every prince, nor king, nor emperor liveth,
 After his years upon this earth pass by;
 Not every painter’s brush, nor poet’s sigh
 Bringeth to the world the passion that it giveth;
 Not every sculptor’s chiselled stone outliveth
 The fell destruction of time’s tenancy;
 Nor men thought great, nor man’s inconstancy,
 Commit the sins that life’s last court forgiveth,
 Not such as these form that immortal band,
 Whose names adorn the temples of past ages.
 Nay, those decreed by nature to withstand
 The deep emotions written o’er life’s pages.
 Their thoughts with all mankind go hand in hand,
 Their loves make one with genius and the sages.

CXIX

HOW shall I all thy virtues here recount,
 Dear one, within the limit of this line;
 Or round thy brow a wreath of roses twine,
 To mark the passage of the years we mount;
 Or how, in this short verse, describe the fount
 Of love, within my heart, that is all thine?
 Within thy soul’s retreat a light doth shine,
 That maketh my return of poor account.
 Then of my homage take what is thy due,
 That which is mine to give, and free the giving.
 For all I have is now derived from you,
 The best of all that maketh life worth living:
 A gift of nature, given unto few,
 Though, when received, a cause for their thanksgiving.

CXX

’TIS strange, how little doth the world perceive
 The interchange of thought ’twixt thee and me;
 And how far distant from the truth it be
 When, guessing of my love, it doth deceive
 Itself and others, and some tale conceive
 That hath no setting for my heart or thee.
 Then happy are we that it doth not see
 Beyond the false report it would receive.
 So thou, sweet one, unmarried to my love
 That all these years hath sought thee near at hand,
 And seen thee bud and flower, as I strove
 To wait till Cupid touch thee with his wand;
 So thou, upon some pedestal above,
 Locked in the secret of my heart shall stand.

CXXI

THAT which we have we value not to-day,
 Yet when ’tis gone its absence we deplore.
 If fortune flieth and be ours no more,
 Its trail of sorrow passeth on our way,
 If by infirmity we cease to play
 Those truant games that childhood doth adore,
 Then are we all anxiety therefore;
 Since many long for youth when they grow gray.
 So thou, who hast not felt love’s fiercest pain,
 And all unconscious cast my love aside,
 Mayst wake to knowledge, and would love regain
 When I no longer on this earth reside,
 Remembered by my love, that shall remain;
 But thou, for killing me with thy false pride.

CXXII

OH, chide me not, if in this life I make
 Poor tillage of the soil that men do plough;
 And hold me not transgressor, if I now
 Of this world’s order would not so partake.
 Love’s harvester am I, my love at stake,
 And by lost love my thought, it seems, must grow.
 While others happy issue from it know,
 My soul may not produce till my heart break.
 Then plough, sad spirit, o’er the cheerless morrow,
 And though thy husbandry be but a line,
 Know that its fruit, born like a child of sorrow,
 May bear thy likeness, and be thy life’s sign
 In after years, so that the world shall borrow
 Some portion of the love that once was thine.

CXXIII

IF thou wert chainèd by the bans of life,
 And wedded to another, as thy lord,
 I well might pierce this heart as with a sword,
 And leave to love the virtue of a wife.
 But since thou holdest, by love’s hand, a knife,
 Made sharp by wit, thy maidenhood’s reward;
 Thou mayst so wound me by one fickle word,
 That I am all at enmity and strife.
 Unwedded then, save to youth’s foolish pride,
 Thou art still free, and chaste as virgin snow,
 That, taken in captivity, doth fade,
 And melt to water, clear as for a bride.
 Then surely I through frosty drifts may plough,
 To capture, in love’s chase, th’ unwedded maid.

CXXIV

THOU art, in truth, my muse’s only guide,
 That fashions by this pen thine image here,
 Developèd, through loving, year by year:
 The picture of thy beauty and thy pride.
 For all my verse doth hold, thou dost decide,
 Since, writing, I the thought of thee hold dear,
 And must portray thy very joy and fear,
 This mirror and thyself stand side by side.
 Then, should thy true resemblance live herein
 (An only offspring of my love, for me),
 I treasure this thy likeness as my child;
 And think thereon, as I do think on thee.
 For thou art both my angel and my sin;
 Since ’twas my sin to be by thee beguiled.

CXXV

BACK from the sculptured chantry of the past,
 The chiselled forms of memory appear,
 Like stately sentinels of night, yet dear
 And welcome, as they gather swift and fast;
 Fast on the heels of love, returned at last,
 And swift, as recollection draweth near.
 The songs of th’ exalted choir ring so clear,
 They echo thoughts that time hath long recast.
 Old chambers of the mind lie thus exposed,
 By some strange magic, moved with nature’s wand,
 And furnished by deft hands. Doors, once fast closed,
 Are opened to admit the wondrous band
 Of spiritual workmen, unopposed,
 Who build anew things fashioned by our hand.

CXXVI

IF all the value of my love is this,
 That by its pain my verse may have some lasting,
 Oh, let it bear the fruit of my long fasting;
 Not in fulfilment of its end remiss,
 But yielding somewhat of that holy bliss
 Denied me, though on others its joy casting.
 No youthful heart, no hope let me be blasting;
 No maiden keep from her true lover’s kiss.
 Then end thy tale, sad heart that in me dieth,
 For want of sunshine from my love’s sweet smile.
 Give unto life the love that in thee lieth;
 Since what thou lovest only would defile.
 Gain for thyself the name of one who trieth
 Love’s truth to teach, though sorrowing the while.

CXXVII

OH! lay aside thy pen, since thou must sing
 Forever in a mournful minor key,
 And let the world thy disappointment see,
 And hear the death-knell of thy spirit ring.
 Why write of love, since love thou canst not bring
 Within thy craving heart, that still must be
 Unsatisfied? Why on thy bended knee
 Beg life from some cold, adamantine thing?
 Yet at this final moment, more than e’er,
 Dost thou seem near to me, dear heart, and more
 Than when first found, dost thou seem sweet and fair,
 And of my love possess a greater store!
 Then though my voice be still, and dead the air,
 In silence must I thy dear self adore.

CXXVIII

THE Wounded Eros fell upon the ground,
 His bow and quiver lying at his side;
 The one destroyed, the other but half tried.
 An arrow, aimed at man, its way had found
 Beneath the child’s soft flesh; and with a sound
 At once both sweet and sad, he sank and cried
 In pain to Venus, beauty’s queen and bride,
 As she descended from the heavenly mound.
 So with mankind: Love, wounded, may be seen,
 Felled by his own swift shaft, that poison brings,
 Instead of peace or gladness, to his heart.
 Filled with the vision of what might have been,
 He treasures still the very thought that clings,
 Like sable night, though from it he would part.
O THOU, fair one, who never shalt be known,
 Though ages cover thy frail bones with dust,
 And time displace the greed of worldly lust;
 Thou, whose gay spirit to my heart hath shown
 How great love may become when once full-grown:
 Thou, who hast been the fullness of my trust
 In all things born of love’s fierce fire,—and must,
 Perforce, hold o’er thy head love’s magic crown:
 Take all I have. I lay it at thy feet.
 Poor though it be, ’tis thine. O ask not why!
 Within these lines both joy and sorrow greet
 The lenient friend, who hath not passed them by.
 And may those lovers, who have found love sweet,
 Judge both our hearts when in the grave we lie.