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I thought our love at full, but I did err;
Joy’s wreath drooped o’er mine eyes; I could not see
That sorrow must be
Love’s deepest spokesman and interpreter.

Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may, the sports of love
Time will not be ours forever;
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.

I will confess
With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That, let her lay
On me all day,
I’ll kiss the hand that strikes me.

Higher far,
Upward, into the pure realm,
Over sun or star,
Over the flickering Dæmon film,
Thou must mount for love,—

Here’s a valentine’s song for your loved one. “Motley I count the only wear
That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise.”

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth.

When love beckons to you follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him.

A glimpse through an interstice caught, Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of winter night, I unremark’d seated in a corner.

My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.