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Visions bright of happy youth,
I'll sing of heroes and of kings,
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell :
O sacred fire that burnest mightily
In living breasts, ykindled first above Emongst th' eternal spheres and lamping sky,
And thence pour’d into men, which men call love.
'Tis that sweet fit, that does true beauty love,
And choseth virtue for his dearest dame, Whence spring all noble deeds, and never-dying fame.
Well did antiquitie a god thee deeme
That over mortal minds has so great might, To order them as best to thee doth seeme,
And all their actions to direct aright; The fatal purpose of divine foresight
Thou dost effect in destined descents, Through deep impression of thy secret might ;
And stirrest up the heroes high intents, Which the late world admires for wondrous monuments.
Ne suffereth uncomely idleness
In his free thought to build her sluggish nest. Ne suffereth it thought of ungentleness
Ever to creep into his noble breast; But to the highest and the worthiest
Lifteth it up that else would lowly fall; It lets not fall,—it lets it not to rest :
It lets not scarce the prince to breathe at all, But to his first pursuit him forward still doth call.
Love? I will tell thee what it is to love.
Yes, this is Love, the steadfast and the true,
To breathe in some green walk their first young vow, While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet, And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow, And all was rapture then which is but memory now!
Dans un délire extrême
Love should be like that bird of light
In sun-bright regions fearless flies ;
Love is like the glass That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful. The morning looks Its very loveliest when the fresh air Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red; And the hot noon flits by most rapidly When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page Bearing the poet's words of love and then The twilight walk when the link'd arms can feel The beating of the heart : upon the air There is a music never heard but once,A light the eyes can never see again ; Each star has its own prophecy of hope, And every song and tale that breathe of love Seem echoes of the heart.
O, the voice of woman's love!
What a bosom-stirring word !
Than woman's love ?
How it melts upon the ear!
How it nourishes the heart !