Song by William Browne

For her gait if she be walking,
Be she sitting I desire her
For her state’s sake, and admire her
For her wit if she be talking:
Gait and state and wit approve her;
For which all and each I love her.

Be she sullen, I commend her
For a modest; be she merry,
For a kind one her prefer I.
Briefly, everything doth lend her
So much grace and so approve her
That for everything I love her.

Love Is Enough by William Morris

Love is enough: though the World be a-waning,
And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover
The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,
And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

I need not go’

I need not go
Through sleet and snow
To where I know
She waits for me;
She will tarry me there
‘Til I find it fair,
And have time to spare
From company.

When I’ve overgot
The world somewhat,
When things cost not
Such stress and strain,
Is soon enough
By cypress sough
To tell my Love
I am come again.

And if some day,
When one cries nay,
I still delay
To seek her side,
(Though ample measure
Of fitting leisure
Await my pleasure)
She will not chide.

What–not upbraid me
That I delay’d me,
Nor ask what stay’d me
So long? Ah, no!–
New cares may claim me,
New loves inflame me,
She will not blame me,
But suffer it so.

To Aurora by Sir William Alexander

I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes,
And by those golden locks whose lock none slips,
And by the naked snows which beauty dyes,
I swear by all the jewels of thy mind,
Whose like yet never worldly treasure bought,
Thy solid judgement and thy generous thought,
Which in this darkened age have clearly shined:
I swear by those, and by my secret yet most fervent fires,
That I never nursed but chaste desires,
And such as modesty might well approve.
Then since I love those virtuous parts in thee,
Shouldst thou not love this virtuous mind in me?

O if thou knew’st how thou thyself dost harm,
And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil my rest;
Then thou would’st melt the ice out of thy breast
And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
O if thy pride did not our ours control,
What world of loving wonders shoul’st thou see!
For if I saw thee once transform’d in me,
Then in my bosom I would pour my soul;
Then all thy thoughts should in my visage shine,
And if that aught mischanced thou should’st not moan
Nor bear the burden of thy griefs alone;
No, I would have my share in what were thine:
And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
This happy harmony would make them none.

I’ll Give Thee leave, My Love

I’ll Give thee leave, my love, in beauty’s field
To rear red colours whiles, and bend thine eye;
those that are bashful still, I quite despise
Such simple souls are too soon moved to yield:
Let majesty armed in thy countenance sit,
As that which will no injury receive;
And I’ll not hate thee, whiles although thou have
A spark of pride, so it be ruled by wit.
This is to chastity a powerful guard,
Whilst haughty thoughts all servile things eschew,
That spark hath power the passions to subdue,
And would of glory challenge a reward:
But do not fall in love with thine own self;
Narcissus erst was lost on such a shelf.

Sonnet 130 by William Shakespeare

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Love Poem by William Blake (1757-1827)

The Clod and the Pebble by William Blake

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

So sang a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle’s feet;
But a Pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet.

Love seeketh only Self to please,

To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.

The Garden of Love

I laid me down upon a bank,
Where Love lay sleeping;
I heard among the rushes dank
Weeping, weeping.

Then I went to the heath and the wild,
To the thistles and thorns of the waste;
And they told me how they were beguiled,
Driven out, and compelled to the chaste.

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut
And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.