Life's Tragedy

It may be misery not to sing at all, And to go silent through the brimming day; It may be misery never to be loved, But deeper griefs than these beset the way. To sing the perfect song, And by a half-tone lost the key, There the potent sorrow, there the grief, The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy.

Sonnet 43 - How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways

XLIII How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

Flower Of Love

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day. From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song, Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong. Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed, You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

A White Rose

The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips

Any Soul That Drank The Nectar

Any soul that drank the nectar of your passion was lifted. From that water of life he is in a state of elation. Death came, smelled me, and sensed your fragrance instead. From then on, death lost all hope of me.

An Acrostic

Elizabeth it is in vain you say 'Love not' — thou sayest it in so sweet a way: In vain those words from thee or L. E. L. Zantippe's talents had enforced so well: Ah! if that language from thy heart arise, Breathe it less gently forth — and veil thine eyes. Endymion, recollect, when Luna tried To cure his love — was cured of all beside — His folly — pride — and passion — for he died.

We Had Him

Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing Now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace Sing our songs among the stars and and walk our dances across the face of the moon In the instant we learn that Michael is gone we know nothing No clocks can tell our time and no oceans can rush our tides With the abrupt absence of our treasure

Unfortunate Coincidence

By the time you swear you're his, Shivering and sighing, And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying - Lady, make a note of this: One of you is lying.

Sonnet 20: A Woman's Face With Nature's Own Hand Painted

A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue, all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created, Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,

A Kiss

Exiled on the isle of passion and shackled in the prison of craving. Bottled up emotion - screaming and shouting and searching for an escape. Like a dehydrated deer tracking water -Like a desert hunting an oasis. Deluge of flames enrapture my being with the fervor of a thousand fire. Tranquillized by cloud of restraint yet burning with the inferno of love. Raining from the sky of my being- cascading from my connubial essence. Sunshine from the hub of my heart, moistens my lips in the dew of desire.

The City's Love

For one brief golden moment rare like wine, The gracious city swept across the line; Oblivious of the color of my skin, Forgetting that I was an alien guest, She bent to me, my hostile heart to win, Caught me in passion to her pillowy breast; The great, proud city, seized with a strange love, Bowed down for one flame hour my pride to prove.

The Great Fires

Love is apart from all things. Desire and excitement are nothing beside it. It is not the body that finds love. What leads us there is the body. What is not love provokes it. What is not love quenches it. Love lays hold of everything we know. The passions which are called love also change everything to a newness at first. Passion is clearly the path

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! * Untold Art Of Love *! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Soul rejoices by enlightened grace, virile breeze smooches passion by mirth heart touches tunes even million miles apart earthly rhythm seems to reel thorough red fear of falling never baffles grace of love as the beauty of grace overpowers sorrow when reef of reason entices upon the blue words of thirsty desire rambles bewildered

He Made This Screen

not of silver nor of coral, but of weatherbeaten laurel. Here, he introduced a sea uniform like tapestry; here, a fig-tree; there, a face; there, a dragon circling space -- designating here, a bower;

Crowds

It is not given to every man to take a bath of multitude; enjoying a crowd is an art; and only he can relish a debauch of vitality at the expense of the human species, on whom, in his cradle, a fairy has bestowed the love of masks and masquerading, the hate of home, and the passion for roaming. Multitude, solitude: identical terms, and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd. The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself of someone else, as he chooses. Like those wandering souls who go looking for a body, he enters as he likes into each man's personality. For him alone everything is vacant; and if certain places seem closed to him, it is only because in his eyes they are not worth visiting.

A Prayer

'Mid the discordant noises of the day I hear thee calling; I stumble as I fare along Earth's way; keep me from falling. Mine eyes are open but they cannot see for gloom of night: I can no more than lift my heart to thee for inward light. The wild and fiery passion of my youth consumes my soul; In agony I turn to thee for truth and self-control. For Passion and all the pleasures it can give will die the death;

Seasonal Cycle - Chapter 05 - Winter

'Oh, dear with best thighs, heart-stealing is this environ with abundantly grown stacks of rice and their cobs, or with sugarcane, and it is reverberated with the screeches of ruddy gees that abide hither and thither... now heightened will be passion, thereby this season will be gladdening for lusty womenfolk, hence listen of this season, called Shishira, the Winter... 'At this time, people enjoy abiding in the medial places of their residences, whose ventilators are blockaded for the passage of chilly air, and at fireplaces, in sunrays, with heavy clothing, and along with mature women of age, for they too will be passionately steamy...

Reason And Passion Xv

And the priestess spoke again and said: "Speak to us of Reason and Passion." And he answered saying: Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason and your judgment wage war against passion and your appetite. Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul, that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody. But how shall I, unless you yourselves be also the peacemakers, nay, the lovers of all your elements?

Life

What is our life? A play of passion, Our mirth the music of division, Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be, Where we are dressed for this short comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss. Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.

Flirtation

UPON thy purple mat thy body bare Is fine and limber like a tender tree. The motion of thy supple form is rare, Like a lithe panther lolling languidly, Toying and turning slowly in her lair. Oh, I would never ask for more of thee, Thou art so clean in passion and so fair. Enough! if thou wilt ask no more of me!