Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come.
Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vow
a thousand times
Come, yet again, come, come.
If thou survive my well-contented day,When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,And shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,Compare them with the bettering of the time,And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,Exceeded by the height of happier…
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,And each doth good turns now unto the other:When that mine eye is famish’d for a look,Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,With my love’s picture then my eye doth feastAnd to the painted banquet bids my heart;Another time mine eye is my heart’s guestAnd…
Here further up the mountain slopeThan there was every any hope,My father built, enclosed a spring,Strung chains of wall round everything,Subdued the growth of earth to grass,And brought our various lives to pass.A dozen girls and boys we were.The mountain seemed to like the stir,And made of us a little while-With always something in her…
O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,Which have no correspondence with true sight!Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,That censures falsely what they see aright?If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,What means the world to say it is not so?If it be not, then love doth well denoteLove’s…
If I weep, if I come with excuses, my beloved puts cotton wool in his ears.Every cruelty which he commits becomes him, every cruelty which he commits I endure.If he accounts me nonexistent, I account his tyranny generosity.The cure of the ache of my heart is the ache for him; how shall I not surrender…
ON a day–alack the day!–Love, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fairPlaying in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the windAll unseen ‘gan passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;Air, would I might triumph so!But, alack, my hand is swornNe’er to pluck thee…