As ye came from the Holy Land
AS ye came from the holy land
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
How should I know your true love,
That have met many a one
As I came from the holy land,
That have come, that have gone?
She is neither white nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath her form divine
In the earth or the air.
Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angelic face,
Who like a nymph, like a queen, did appear
In her gait, in her grace.
She hath left me here alone
All alone, as unknown,
Who sometime did me lead with herself,
And me loved as her own.
What 's the cause that she leaves you alone
And a new way doth take,
That sometime did love you as her own,
And her joy did you make?
I have loved her all my youth,
But now am old, as you see:
Love likes not the falling fruit,
Nor the withered tree.
Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past:
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.
His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy;
He is won with a world of despair,
And is lost with a toy.
Of womenkind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abused,
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excused.
But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never dead, never cold,
From itself never turning.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(November 1, 1871 – June 5, 1900)
(25 August 1962 -)
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