SONNETS
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXXVII.
A wingèd God, all-powerful to-day,
As in the ages past, hath brought my heart
At once the joy of Heaven, yet, with black art,
The curse of Hell; combinèd in this lay.
Therewith I must content me on my way,
As love its fate doth to the world impart.
And thou, who mayst from busy thought depart,
To read what I in falt’ring verse shall say:
If thou be young, let Cupid crown thy brow
With myrtle green, like love’s perpetual wreath;
That thou but little of his wrath may know.
Or, if the years shall bind thee in their sheath,
And with old age thy locks do hoary grow,
In Heaven, thou shalt find what was lost beneath.
I
WHEN in the realm of rich resplendent thought,
The glories of love’s paradise appear,
How soon do smiles dispel the midnight fear,
And bring possession of the prize long sought?
Unto the banquet of the heart are brought
Fresh delicacies that to all are dear.
At such a feast, O lover, dry thy tear,
And think no more on battles that are fought.
Let all thy powers celebrate in song
This victory thou hast won from solitude.
Think not of sorrow’s pall, nor fate’s past wrong
That once delayed thy soul’s beatitude.
At Hymen’s court shalt thou reside for long,
Since thou art of love’s crownèd multitude.
II
I DARE not tell thee half the love I bear,
Stored in this amorous bosom, oh, my heart,
Lest thou believe me mad, and we should part;
As with the one, whose love I first did share.
Stirred in hot haste my heaven to declare,
I wooed too warmly, while young Cupid’s dart,
Plunged ’neath my breast, saw happiness depart,
Just as I hoped Love’s magic crown to wear.
Long have I mourned; yet now that thou art found,
My folly would repeat its youthful test;
Yea, with a thousand follies, at the sound
Of love, once more begotten in my breast.
Still hold me, Sorrow! Wisdom would resound
Within my soul, and whisper what is best!
III
HOW shall I woo thee, then, thou fairest maid
That e’er did stir a lover true to love?
Fluttering its wings upon the air, a dove
Descends, the emblem of what God hath said
Was peace and love to every man that’s made,
To seek on earth some emblem from above;
To strive once more for that for which he strove,
And see the truth of life before him laid.
Thus wouldst thou lead me to some higher way
Than man doth seek, to satisfy desire,
Fanned by the glories of this corporal form,
Made manifest by something that doth say:
“Now let these senses thine own soul inspire,
And brave the turmoil of thy passions’ storm.”