i can no more hear love's
voice. no more moves
the mouth of her. birds
no more sing. words
i speak return lonely.
flowers i pick turn ghostly.
fire that i burn glows
pale. no more blows
the wind. time tells
no more truth. bells
ring no more in me.
i am all alone singly.
lonely rests my head.
- o my God! i am dead.
i find no peace, and all my war is done
i fear and hope, i burn and freeze likewise
i fly above the wind, yet cannot rise
and nought i have, yet all the world i seize on
that looseth, nor locketh, holdeth me in prison
and holds me not, yet can i 'scape no wise
nor lets me live, nor die, at my devise
and yet of death it giveth none occasion
without eyes i see, and without tongue i plain
i wish to perish, yet i ask for health
i love another, and yet i hate myself
i feed in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain
lo, thus displeaseth me both death and life
and my delight is causer of my grief.
the night has a thousand eyes,
and the day but one;
yet the light of the bright world dies
with the dying sun.
the mind has a thousand eyes,
and the heart but one;
yet the light of a whole life dies
when love is done.
if all the world and love were young,
and truth in every shepherd's tongue,
these pretty pleasures might me move,
to live with thee and be thy love.
but time drives flocks from field to fold,
when rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
and philomel becometh dumb;
the rest complains of cares to come.
the flowers do fade and wanton fields
to wayward winter reckoning yields;
a honey tongue, a heart of gall,
is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
in folly ripe, in reason rotten.
thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
thy coral clasps and amber studs,
all these in me no means can move,
to come to thee and be thy love.
but could youth last, and love still breed,
had joys no date, nor age no need,
then these delights my mind might move,
to live with thee and be thy love.
i wish i could remember the first day,
first hour, first moment of your meeting me;
if bright or dim the season it might be;
summer or winter for aught i can say.
so, unrecorded did it slip away,
so blind was i to see and to foresee,
so dull to mark the budding of my tree
that would not blossom, yet, for many a may.
if only i could recollect it! such
a day of days! i let it come and go
as traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
it seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
if only now I could recall that touch,
first touch of hand in hand! - did one but know!