1247 Love poems

Before you were I loved you and when you were born and when you took your first step Although I did not know good luck I want to say lone penguin keep sturdily waddling in the direction of those frozen mountains sister of desolate sanctity I want to scream Although I did not know you I loved you later on as just a weedy thing a little skeleton I loved Both long pre-you a child myself and as a man in retrospect I loved and I was there while they were raping you I loved although like God

Now you have freely given me leave to love, What will you do? Shall I your mirth, or passion move, When I begin to woo; Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too? Each petty beauty can disdain, and I Spite of your hate Without your leave can see, and die; Dispense a nobler fate! ’Tis easy to destroy, you may create. Then give me leave to love, and love me too Not with design To raise, as Love’s cursed rebels do, When puling poets whine, Fame to their beauty, from their blubbered eyne. Grief is a puddle, and reflects not clear Your beauty’s rays; Joys are pure streams, your eyes appear Sullen in sadder lays; In cheerful numbers they shine bright with praise, Which shall not mention to express you fair, Wounds, flames, and darts, Storms in your brow, nets in your hair, Suborning all your parts, Or to betray, or torture captive hearts. I’ll make your eyes like morning suns appear, As mild, and fair; Your brow as crystal smooth, and clear, And your disheveled hair Shall flow like a calm region of the air.

While those bewitching hands combine, With matchless grace, the silken line, They also weave, with gentle art, Those stronger nets that bind the heart. But soon all earthly things decay: That net in time must wear away: E’en Beauty’s silken meshes gay No lasting hold can take: But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin’d, (And all these charms in thee are join’d) Can throw that net upon the mind, No human art can e’er unbind, No human pow’r can break.

With lovers, ’twas of old the fashion By presents to convey their passion; No matter what the gift they sent, The Lady saw that love was meant. Fair Atalanta , as a favour, Took the boar’s head her Hero gave her; Nor could the bristly thing affront her, ’Twas a fit present from a hunter. When Squires send woodcocks to the dame, It serves to show their absent flame: Some by a snip of woven hair, In posied lockets bribe the fair; How many mercenary matches Have sprung from Di’mond-rings and watches! But hold – a ring, a watch, a locket, Would drain at once a Poet’s pocket; He should send songs that cost him nought, Nor ev’n he prodigal of thought. Why then send Lampreys? fye, for shame! ’Twill set a virgin’s blood on flame. This to fifteen a proper gift! It might lend sixty five a lift. I know your maiden Aunt will scold, And think my present somewhat bold. I see her lift her hands and eyes. ‘What eat it, Niece? eat Spanish flies! ‘Lamprey’s a most immodest diet: ‘You’ll neither wake nor sleep in quiet. ‘Should I to night eat Sago cream, ‘’Twould make me blush to tell my dream; ‘If I eat Lobster, ’tis so warming, ‘That ev’ry man I see looks charming; ‘Wherefore had not the filthy fellow ‘Laid Rochester upon your pillow? ‘I vow and swear, I think the present ‘Had been as modest and as decent. ‘Who has her virtue in her power? ‘Each day has its unguarded hour; ‘Always in danger of undoing, ‘A prawn, a shrimp may prove our ruin! ‘The shepherdess, who lives on salad, ‘To cool her youth, controuls her palate; ‘Should Dian’s maids turn liqu’rish livers, ‘And of huge lampreys rob the rivers, ‘Then all beside each glade and Visto, ‘You’d see Nymphs lying like Calisto . ‘The man who meant to heat your blood, ‘Needs not himself such vicious food –’ In this, I own, your Aunt is clear, I sent you what I well might spare: For when I see you, (without joking) Your eyes, lips, breasts, are so provoking, They set my heart more cock-a-hoop, Than could whole seas of craw-fish soupe.

Shy one, shy one, Shy one of my heart, She moves in the firelight Pensively apart. She carries in the dishes, And lays them in a row. To an isle in the water With her would I go. She carries in the candles, And lights the curtained room, Shy in the doorway And shy in the gloom; And shy as a rabbit, Helpful and shy. To an isle in the water With her would I fly.

Let’s call for Hymen if agreed thou art – Delays in love but crucify the heart. Love’s thorny tapers yet neglected lie; Speak thou the word, they’ll kindle by and by. The nimble hours woo us on to wed, And Genius waits to have us both to bed. Behold, for us the naked Graces stay With maunds of roses for us to strew the way. Besides, the most religious prophet stands Ready to join as well our hearts as hands. June yet smiles; but if she chance to chide, Ill luck ’twill bode to th’bridegroom and the bride. Tell me Anthea, dost thou fondly dread The loss of that we call a maidenhead? Come, I’ll instruct thee. Know, the vestal fire Is not by marriage quenched, but flames the higher.

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free, As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay, To honour thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep, While I have eyes to see; And having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I'll despair, Under that cypress tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death, to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me; And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee.

The night reduced to a siren, a sigh: Beautiful boy on the treadmill Glimpsed sweating through sweating glass— My new moon. Sylvia’s moon: a smiling skull Snagged in witchy branches; fossil Brushed free of blackest earth. My last moon: an orange ball at rest, for an instant, On the grey lake. Wish list: dining set and dresser, Boombox, thin black tie, boy- Friend à la Madonna’s “True Blue” La la la la la la la Your moon (tonight): a clouded X-ray. I stand at a corner and stare up, Both of us astonished By its own secret light.

Are there two things, of all which men possess, That are so like each other and so near, As mutual Love seems like to Happiness? Dear Asra, woman beyond utterance dear! This love which ever welling at my heart, Now in its living fount doth heave and fall, Now overflowing pours thro’ every part Of all my frame, and fills and changes all, Like vernal waters springing up through snow, This Love that seeming great beyond the power Of growth, yet seemeth ever more to grow, Could I transmute the whole to one rich Dower Of Happy Life, and give it all to Thee, Thy lot, methinks, were Heaven, thy age, Eternity!

We met in a coastal village spent a lovely night without leaving an address going separate ways. Three years later we meet again by coincidence. The whole three years spun a novel we abandoned: They fail to recognize themselves as though meeting in another story for an encounter. One asks: Who are you, so cold and weary The other says: I only know a thread is loose on my sweater The more you pull it, the more it lengthens until I completely vanish.