1247 Love poems

I hate to love you as I do but I can't help it so now it's not about us anymore it's about you what are you gonna do with my love?

Finally you called me and I said ok let's do it lets start a new life together away from this city.

Tonight I saw a star but I wasn't looking at the sky so guess what it happened to me when I payed attention to your eyes.

I left you a note on the mirror which you'll see before i'm awake it says something true that i'm better at writing down than saying out loud you'll see it that's enough

Where did the handsome beloved go? I wonder, where did that tall, shapely cypress tree go? He spread his light among us like a candle. Where did he go? So strange, where did he go without me? All day long my heart trembles like a leaf. All alone at midnight, where did that beloved go? Go to the road, and ask any passing traveler — That soul-stirring companion, where did he go? Go to the garden, and ask the gardener — That tall, shapely rose stem, where did he go? Go to the rooftop, and ask the watchman — That unique sultan, where did he go? Like a madman, I search in the meadows! That deer in the meadows, where did he go? My tearful eyes overflow like a river — That pearl in the vast sea, where did he go? All night long, I implore both moon and Venus — That lovely face, like a moon, where did he go? If he is mine, why is he with others? Since he’s not here, to what “there” did he go? If his heart and soul are joined with God, And he left this realm of earth and water, where did he go? Tell me clearly, Shams of Tabriz, Of whom it is said, “The sun never dies” — where did he go? Translated from the Persian

Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that’s lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight. O never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.

You are the problem I propose, My dear, the text my musings glose: I call you for convenience love. By definition you’re a cause Inferred by necessary laws— You are so to the saints above. But in this shadowy lower life I sleep with a terrestrial wife And earthy children I beget. Love is a fiction I must use, A privilege I can abuse, And sometimes something I forget. Now, in the heavenly other place Love is in the eternal mind The luminous form whose shade she is, A ghost discarnate, thought defined. She was so to my early bliss, She is so while I comprehend The forms my senses apprehend, And in the end she will be so. Her whom my hands embrace I kiss, Her whom my mind infers I know. The one exists in time and space And as she was she will not be; The other is in her own grace And is She is eternally. Plato! you shall not plague my life. I married a terrestrial wife. And Hume! she is not mere sensation In sequence of observed relation. She has two forms—ah, thank you, Duns!—, I know her in both ways at once. I knew her, yes, before I knew her, And by both means I must construe her, And none among you shall undo her.

I scarce believe my love to be so pure As I had thought it was, Because it doth endure Vicissitude, and season, as the grass; Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore My love was infinite, if spring make’ it more. But if medicine, love, which cures all sorrow With more, not only be no quintessence, But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense, And of the sun his working vigor borrow, Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use To say, which have no mistress but their muse, But as all else, being elemented too, Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do. And yet no greater, but more eminent, Love by the spring is grown; As, in the firmament, Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown, Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough, From love’s awakened root do bud out now. If, as water stirred more circles be Produced by one, love such additions take, Those, like so many spheres, but one heaven make, For they are all concentric unto thee; And though each spring do add to love new heat, As princes do in time of action get New taxes, and remit them not in peace, No winter shall abate the spring’s increase.

Jenny kiss’d me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in! Say I’m weary, say I’m sad, Say that health and wealth have miss’d me, Say I’m growing old, but add, Jenny kiss’d me.

A Lady asks me I speak in season She seeks reason for an affect, wild often That is so proud he hath Love for a name Who denys it can hear the truth now Wherefore I speak to the present knowers Having no hope that low-hearted Can bring sight to such reason Be there not natural demonstration I have no will to try proof-bringing Or say where it hath birth What is its virtu and power Its being and every moving Or delight whereby ‘tis called “to love” Or if man can show it to sight. Where memory liveth, it takes its state Formed like a diafan from light on shade Which shadow cometh of Mars and remaineth Created, having a name sensate, Custom of the soul, will from the heart; Cometh from a seen form which being understood Taketh locus and remaining in the intellect possible Wherein hath he neither weight nor still-standing, Descendeth not by quality but shineth out Himself his own effect unendingly Not in delight but in the being aware Nor can he leave his true likeness otherwhere. He is not vertu but cometh of that perfection Which is so postulate not by the reason But ‘tis felt, I say. Beyond salvation, holdeth his judging force Deeming intention to be reason’s peer and mate, Poor in discernment, being thus weakness’ friend Often his power cometh on death in the end, Be it withstayed and so swinging counterweight. Not that it were natural opposite, but only Wry’d a bit from the perfect, Let no man say love cometh from chance Or hath not established lordship Holding his power even though Memory hath him no more. Cometh he to be when the will From overplus Twisteth out of natural measure, Never adorned with rest Moveth he changing colour Either to laugh or weep Contorting the face with fear resteth but a little Yet shall ye see of him That he is most often With folk who deserve him And his strange quality sets sighs to move Willing man look into that forméd trace in his mind And with such uneasiness as rouseth the flame. Unskilled can not form his image, He himself moveth not, drawing all to his stillness, Neither turneth about to seek his delight Nor yet to see out proving Be it so great or so small. He draweth likeness and hue from like nature So making pleasure more certain in seeming Nor can stand hid in such nearness, Beautys be darts tho’ not savage Skilled from such fear a man follows Deserving spirit, that pierceth. Nor is he known from his face But taken in the white light that is allness Toucheth his aim Who heareth, seeth not form But is led by its emanation Being divided, set out from colour, Disjunct in mid darkness Grazeth the light, one moving by other, Being divided, divided from all falsity Worthy of trust From him alone mercy proceedeth. Go, song, surely thou mayest Whither it please thee For so art thou ornate that thy reasons Shall be praised from thy understanders, With others hast thou no will to make company. “Called thrones, balascio or topaze” Eriugina was not understood in his time “which explains, perhaps, the delay in condemning him” And they went looking for Manicheans And found, so far as I can make out, no Manicheans So they dug for, and damned Scotus Eriugina “Authority comes from right reason, never the other way on” Hence the delay in condemning him Aquinas head down in a vacuum, Aristotle which way in a vacuum? Sacrum, sacrum, inluminatio coitu. Lo Sordels si fo di Mantovana of a castle named Goito. “Five castles! “Five castles!” (king giv’ him five castles) “And what the hell do I know about dye-works?!” His Holiness has written a letter: “CHARLES the Mangy of Anjou…. ..way you treat your men is a scandal….” Dilectis miles familiaris…castra Montis Odorisii Montis Sancti Silvestri pallete et pile… In partibus Thetis….vineland land tilled the land incult pratis nemoribus pascuis with legal jurisdiction his heirs of both sexes, …sold the damn lot six weeks later, Sordellus de Godio. Quan ben m’albir e mon ric pensamen.