(From "Wit Restored," 1658)
I know as well as you she is not fair, Nor hath she sparkling eyes, or curlèd hair; Nor can she brag of virtue or of truth, Or anything about her, save her youth. She is a woman too, and to no end,
I know, I verses write and letters send;
And nought I do can to compassion move her; All this I know, yet cannot choose but love her; Yet am not blind, as you and others be, Who think and swear they little Cupid see Play in their mistress' eyes, and that there dwell Roses on cheeks, and that her breasts excel The whitest snow, as if that love were built On fading red and white, the body's gilt, And that I cannot love unless I tell Wherein or on what part my love doth dwell. Vain heretics you be, for I love more Than ever any did that told wherefore; Then trouble me no more, nor tell me why. 'Tis because she is she, and I am I.
EPITAPH UPON A CHILD THAT DIED
Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies: Pray be silent, and not stir
Th' easy earth that covers her.
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the pleasant sight to see Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, While my love climb'd up to me!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the weary haunt for me,
All alone on Airly Beacon, With his baby on my knee!
Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
WE SAW, AND WOO'D EACH OTHER'S EYES
We saw, and woo'd each other's eyes,
My soul contracted then with thine, And both burnt in one sacrifice,
By which our marriage grew divine.
Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, Profane the temple of delight, And purchase endless penitence,
With the stolen pleasure of one night.
Time's ever ours, while we despise The sensual idol of our clay, For though the sun do set and rise, We joy one everlasting day,
Whose light no jealous clouds obscure, While each of us shine innocent. The troubled stream is still impure, With virtue flies away content.
Thus when to one dark silent room,
Death shall our loving coffins thrust; Fame will build columns on our tomb, And add a perfume to our dust.
William Habington
Strange fits of passion have I known; And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.
When she I loved look'd every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; And, as we climb'd the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopp'd: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropp'd.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head!
"O mercy," to myself I cried,
"If Lucy should be dead!
Somewhere or other there must surely be The face not seen, the voice not heard,
Somewhere or other, may be near or far; Past land and sea, clean out of sight; Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star That tracks her night by night.
Somewhere or other, may be far or near; With just a wall, a hedge, between; With just the last leaves of the dying year Fallen on a turf grown green.
Christina Georgina Rossetti
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-search'd growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosen'd from the sky: - So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, This close-companion'd inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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