Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of th purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
When I have fears that I may cease to be | John Keats
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;–then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
Gather Ye Rose Buds | Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying;
And the same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And, while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry
The Poetry of Dress | Robert Herrick
I
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:–
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction,–
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher–
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly,–
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat,–
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,–
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.
II
Whenas in silk my Julia goes
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Next when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!
The Night | Emily Brontė
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
And the storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
If grief for grief can touch thee | Emily Brontė
If grief for grief can touch thee,
If answering woe for woe,
If any truth can melt thee
Come to me now!
I cannot be more lonely,
More drear I cannot be!
My worn heart beats so wildly
‘Twill break for thee–
And when the world despises–
When Heaven repels my prayer–
Will not mine angel comfort?
Mine idol hear?
Yes, by the tears I’m poured,
By all my hours of pain
O I shall surely win thee,
Beloved, again!
Shall Earth no more inspire thee | Emily Brontė
Shall Earth no more inspire thee,
Thou lonely dreamer now?
Since passion may not fire thee
Shall Nature cease to bow?
Thy mind is ever moving
In regions dark to thee;
Recall its useless roving–
Come back and dwell with me.
I know my mountain breezes
Enchant and soothe the still–
I know my sunshine pleases
Despite thy wayward will.
When day with evening blending
Sinks from the summer sky,
I’ve seen thy spirit bending
In fond idolatry.
I’ve watched thee every hour–
I know my mighty sway–
I know my magic power
To drive thy griefs away.
Few hearts to mortals given
On earth so wildly pine,
Yet none would ask a Heaven
More like the Earth than mine.
Then let my winds caress thee–
Thy comrade let me be–
Since naught beside can bless thee,
Return and dwell with me.
The Old Stoic | Emily Brontė
Riches I hold in light esteem
And Love I laugh to scorn
And Lust of Fame was but a dream
That vanished with the morn —
And if I pray–the only prayer
Is–‘Leave the heart that now I bear
And give me liberty.’
Yes, as my swift days near their goal
‘Tis all that I implore–
In life and death a chainless soul
With courage to endure!
From Old Sanskrit | Dharmakirti
When God made me, why did he then conspire
To make her beauty? If both had to be,
Why did he then make spring to wake desire?
Surely he made the spring to break
Men’s hearts: but why then did he make
The mango blossom on the mango-tree?
***
A hundred times I learnt from my philosophy
To think no more of love, this vanity,
This dream, this source of all regret,
This emptiness.
But no philosophy can make my heart forget
Her loveliness.
***
If he had seen this dainty creature,
Golden as saffron in every feature,
How could a high creator bear
To part with anything so fair?
Suppose he shut his eyes? Oh, no:
How could he then have made her so?
–Which proves the universe was not created:
Buddhist philosophy is vindicated.
***
Though she’s the girl, I am the one who’s shy;
And though she walks with heavy hips, it’s I
Who cannot mpve for heaviness; and she
Who is the woman: but the coward, me.
She is the one with high and swelling breast,
But I the one with weariness oppressed.
Clearly in her the causal factors lie,
But the effects in me I wonder why!
From Old Sanskrit | Sudraka
“So friar, I see you have a taste for meat.”
“Not that it’s any good without some wine.”
“You like wine too, then?” “Better when I dine
With pretty harlots.” “Surely such girls eat
No end of money?” “Well, I steal you see,
Or win at dice.” “A thief and gambler too?”
“Why certainly. What else is there to do?
Aren’t you aware I am vowed to poverty?”
***
Truly, the loss of welath is no great pain.
When fate disposes, wealth begins, or ends.
Yet one heart-burning follows in its train:
The sorrow of the cooling off of friends.
Juvenilia 