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.