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Sonnet XCIV: Michelangelo 's Kiss

Great Michelangelo, with age grown bleak
And uttermost labours, having once o'ersaid
All grievous memories on his long life shed,
This worst regret to one true heart could speak:—
That when, with sorrowing love and reverence meek,
He stooped o'er sweet Colonna's dying bed,
His Muse and dominant Lady, spirit-wed,—
Her hand he kissed, but not her brow or cheek.
O Buonarruoti,—good at Art's fire-wheels
To urge her chariot!—even thus the Soul,
Touching at length some sorely-chastened goal,
Earns oftenest but a little: her appeals
Were deep and mute,—lowly her claim. Let be:
What holds for her Death's garner? And for thee?

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Sonnet XII

Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,--
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,--
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek !)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Xii

Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,--
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,--
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek !)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Sonnet XII: Indeed This Very Love

Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,--
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,--
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek--)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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A Modern Courtship

Why turn from me thus with such petulant pride,
When I ask thee, sweet Edith, to be my bride;
When I offer the gift of heart fond and true,
And with loyalty seek thy young love to woo?
With patience I’ve waited from week unto week,
And at length I must openly, candidly speak.

But why dost thou watch me in doubting surprise,
Why thus dost thou raise thy dark, deep, melting eyes?
Can’st thou wonder I love thee, when for the last year
We have whispered and flirted—told each hope and fear;
When I’ve lavished on thee presents costly and gay,
And kissed thy fair hands at least six times each day?

What! Do I hear right? So those long sunny hours
Spent wand’ring in woods or whispering in bowers,
Our love-making ardent in prose and in rhyme,
Was just only a method of passing the time!
A harmless flirtation—the fashion just now,
To be closed, by a smile, or a jest, or a bow!

Ah, believe me, fair Edith, with me ’twas not so,
And I would I had known this but six months ago;
I would not have wasted on false, luring smiles,
On graces coquettish and cold, studied wiles,
True love that would give thee a life for thy life,
And guarded and prized thee, a fond, worshipped wife.

Oh I thou’rt pleased now to whisper my manners are good,
And my smiles such as maiden’s heart rarely withstood,
My age just the thing—nor too young nor too old—
My character faultless, naught lacking but gold,
And to-day might I claim e’en thy beauty so rare
If good Uncle John would but make me his heir.

Many thanks, my best Edith! I now understand
For what thou art willing, to barter thy hand:
A palace-like mansion with front of brown stone,
In some splendid quarter to fashion well known,
Sèvres china, conservatory, furniture rare,
Unlimited pin-money, phaeton and pair.

It is well, gentle lady! The price is not high
With a figure like thine, such a hand, such an eye,
Most brilliant accomplishments, statuesque face,
Manners, carriage distingué and queenlike in grace,—
Nothing wanting whatever, save only a heart,
But, instead, double portions of cunning and art.

Ah! well for me, lady, I have learned in good time
To save myself misery—you, sordid crime.
I will garner the love that so lately was thine
For one who can give me a love true as mine;
But learn ere we part, Edith, peerless and fair,
Uncle John has just died and has left me his heir!

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Merkabah

Some tell of love stories where fire becomes a mother in healing

Wheels within wheels, where hell becomes a myth, and heaven becomes the
present

The cosmic chariot of the soul, the sacred fire, and transfiguration of
energy

It comes from the deep darkness within ones Neshamah,

Prayer to the divine Elohim, and the18th breath of life

Once ascended in that ring of fire, a being can fly beyond space and
sky

Some call it the fire in the sky, seen only through sacred third eyes

Sweet like the spirit of the sacred Shekinah,
One key in Metatronics

The visual, spiritual, and the physical, all become one in this hour of
light

To the holy vehicle of ascension, sacred and pure, flower of life

poem by Josephe Buchanan
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Sonnet 12 - Indeed this very love which is my boast

XII

Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,—
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,—
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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The Soul's Prayer

In childhood's pride I said to Thee:
'O Thou, who mad'st me of Thy breath,
Speak, Master, and reveal to me
Thine inmost laws of life and death.

'Give me to drink each joy and pain
Which Thine eternal hand can mete,
For my insatiate soul can drain
Earth's utmost bitter, utmost sweet.

'Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife,
Withhold no gift or grief I crave,
The intricate lore of love and life
And mystic knowledge of the grave.'

Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low:
'Child, I will hearken to thy prayer,
And thy unconquered soul shall know
All passionate rapture and despair.

'Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame,
And love shall burn thee like a fire,
And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame,
To purge the dross from thy desire.

'So shall thy chastened spirit yearn
To seek from its blind prayer release,
And spent and pardoned, sue to learn
The simple secret of My peace.

I, bending from my sevenfold height,
Will teach thee of My quickening grace,
Life is a prism of My light,
And Death the shadow of My face.'

poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Epitaph On H. Walmsley, Esq.,

IN ALVERSTOKE CHURCH, HANTS.

Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew
Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true;
The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed,
Whom age left shivering in its dreariest shed;
Thy friends, who sorrowing saw thee, when disease
Seemed first the genial stream of life to freeze,
Pale from thy hospitable home depart,
Thy hand still open, and yet warm thy heart!
But how shall she her love, her loss express,
Thy widow, in this uttermost distress,
When she with anguish hears her lisping train
Upon their buried father call in vain!
She wipes the tear despair had forced to flow,
She lifts her look beyond this vale of woe,
And rests (while humbled in the dust she kneels)
On Him who only knows how much she feels.

poem by William Lisle Bowles
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A Woman’s Question

BEFORE I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy future give
Color and form to mine,
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
A shadow of regret:
Is there one link within the Past
That holds thy spirit yet?
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouch’d, unshar’d by mine?
If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel,
Within thy inmost soul,
That thou hast kept a portion back,
While I have stak’d the whole;
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfil?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?
Speak now—lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid
The demon-spirit Change,
Shedding a passing glory still
On all things new and strange?
It may not be thy fault alone—but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day
And answer to my claim,
That Fate, and that to-day’s mistake—
Not thou—had been to blame?
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not,—I dare not hear,
The words would come too late;
Yet I would spare thee all remorse,
So, comfort thee, my fate—
Whatever on my heart may fall—remember, I would risk it all!

poem by Adelaide Anne Procter
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A Dead Friend

I.

Gone, O gentle heart and true,
Friend of hopes foregone,
Hopes and hopeful days with you
Gone?

Days of old that shone
Saw what none shall see anew,
When we gazed thereon.

Soul as clear as sunlit dew,
Why so soon pass on,
Forth from all we loved and knew
Gone?

II.

Friend of many a season fled,
What may sorrow send
Toward thee now from lips that said
'Friend'?

Sighs and songs to blend
Praise with pain uncomforted
Though the praise ascend?

Darkness hides no dearer head:
Why should darkness end
Day so soon, O dear and dead
Friend?

III.

Dear in death, thou hast thy part
Yet in life, to cheer
Hearts that held thy gentle heart
Dear.

Time and chance may sear
Hope with grief, and death may part
Hand from hand's clasp here:

Memory, blind with tears that start,
Sees through every tear
All that made thee, as thou art,
Dear.

IV.

True and tender, single-souled,
What should memory do
Weeping o'er the trust we hold
True?

Known and loved of few,
But of these, though small their fold,
Loved how well were you!

Change, that makes of new things old,
Leaves one old thing new;
Love which promised truth, and told
True.

V.

Kind as heaven, while earth's control
Still had leave to bind
Thee, thy heart was toward man's whole
Kind.

Thee no shadows blind
Now: the change of hours that roll
Leaves thy sleep behind.

Love, that hears thy death-bell toll
Yet, may call to mind
Scarce a soul as thy sweet soul
Kind.

VI.

How should life, O friend, forget
Death, whose guest art thou?
Faith responds to love's regret,
How?

Still, for us that bow
Sorrowing, still, though life be set,
Shines thy bright mild brow.

Yea, though death and thou be met,
Love may find thee now
Still, albeit we know not yet
How.

VII.

Past as music fades, that shone
While its life might last;
As a song-bird's shadow flown
Past!

Death's reverberate blast
Now for music's lord has blown
Whom thy love held fast.

Dead thy king, and void his throne:
Yet for grief at last
Love makes music of his own
Past.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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A Foretaste

AT length the then of my long hope was now;
Yet had my spirit an extreme unrest:
I knew the good from better was grown best
At length, but could not just as yet tell how.
So I lay straight along, and thrust my brow
Under the heights of grass. Hours struck. The West,
I knew, must be at change; but gazed not, lest
The heat against my naked face (no bough
For shade) should tease me mad, like poisoned spice.
I lay along, letting my whole self think,
Pressing my brow down that the thoughts might fix:
Just as a dicer who holds loaded dice,
Sure of his cast, keeps trifling with his drink
Ere he will throw, and still must taste and mix.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The First Canzone Of The Convito

From The Italian Of Dante

I.
Ye who intelligent the Third Heaven move,
Hear the discourse which is within my heart,
Which cannot be declared, it seems so new.
The Heaven whose course follows your power and art,
Oh, gentle creatures that ye are! me drew,
And therefore may I dare to speak to you,
Even of the life which now I live--and yet
I pray that ye will hear me when I cry,
And tell of mine own heart this novelty;
How the lamenting Spirit moans in it, 10
And how a voice there murmurs against her
Who came on the refulgence of your sphere.

II.
A sweet Thought, which was once the life within
This heavy heart, man a time and oft
Went up before our Father’s feet, and there
It saw a glorious Lady throned aloft;
And its sweet talk of her my soul did win,
So that I said, ‘Thither I too will fare.’
That Thought is fled, and one doth now appear
Which tyrannizes me with such fierce stress,
That my heart trembles--ye may see it leap--
And on another Lady bids me keep
Mine eyes, and says--Who would have blessedness
Let him but look upon that Lady’s eyes,
Let him not fear the agony of sighs.

III.
This lowly Thought, which once would talk with me
Of a bright seraph sitting crowned on high,
Found such a cruel foe it died, and so
My Spirit wept, the grief is hot even now--
And said, Alas for me! how swift could flee
That piteous Thought which did my life console!
And the afflicted one ... questioning
Mine eyes, if such a Lady saw they never,
And why they would...
I said: ‘Beneath those eyes might stand for ever
He whom ... regards must kill with...
To have known their power stood me in little stead,
Those eyes have looked on me, and I am dead.’

IV.
‘Thou art not dead, but thou hast wandered,
Thou Soul of ours, who thyself dost fret,’
A Spirit of gentle Love beside me said;
For that fair Lady, whom thou dost regret,
Hath so transformed the life which thou hast led,
Thou scornest it, so worthless art thou made.
And see how meek, how pitiful, how staid,
Yet courteous, in her majesty she is.
And still call thou her Woman in thy thought;
Her whom, if thou thyself deceivest not,
Thou wilt behold decked with such loveliness,
That thou wilt cry [Love] only Lord, lo! here
Thy handmaiden, do what thou wilt with her.

V.
My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain.
Whence, if by misadventure chance should bring
Thee to base company, as chance may do,
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain,
I prithee comfort thy sweet self again,
My last delight; tell them that they are dull,
And bid them own that thou art beautiful.

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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To The Memory Of Thomas Shipley

GONE to thy Heavenly Father's rest!
The flowers of Eden round thee blowing,
And on thine ear the murmurs blest
Of Siloa's waters softly flowing!
Beneath that Tree of Life which gives
To all the earth its healing leaves
In the white robe of angels clad,
And wandering by that sacred river,
Whose streams of holiness make glad
The city of our God forever!
Gentlest of spirits! not for thee
Our tears are shed, our sighs are given;
Why mourn to know thou art a free
Partaker of the joys of heaven?
Finished thy work, and kept thy faith
In Christian firmness unto death;
And beautiful as sky and earth,
When autumn's sun is downward going,
The blessed memory of thy worth
Around thy place of slumber glowing!
But woe for us! who linger still
With feebler strength and hearts less lowly,
And minds less steadfast to the will
Of Him whose every work is holy.
For not like thine, is crucified
The spirit of our human pride:
And at the bondman's tale of woe,
And for the outcast and forsaken,
Not warm like thine, but cold and slow,
Our weaker sympathies awaken.
Darkly upon our struggling way
The storm of human hate is sweeping;
Hunted and branded, and a prey,
Our watch amidst the darkness keeping,
Oh, for that hidden strength which can
Nerve unto death the inner man!
Oh, for thy spirit, tried and true,
And constant in the hour of trial,
Prepared to suffer, or to do,
In meekness and in self-denial.
Oh, for that spirit, meek and mild,
Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining;
By man deserted and reviled,
Yet faithful to its trust remaining.
Still prompt and resolute to save
From scourge and chain the hunted slave;
Unwavering in the Truth's defence,
Even where the fires of Hate were burning,
The unquailing eye of innocence
Alone upon the oppressor turning!
O loved of thousands! to thy grave,
Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee.
The poor man and the rescued slave
Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee;
And grateful tears, like summer rain,
Quickened its dying grass again!
And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,
Shall come the outcast and the lowly,
Of gentle deeds and words of thine
Recalling memories sweet and holy!
Oh, for the death the righteous die!
An end, like autumn's day declining,
On human hearts, as on the sky,
With holier, tenderer beauty shining;
As to the parting soul were given
The radiance of an opening heaven!
As if that pure and blessed light,
From off the Eternal altar flowing,
Were bathing, in its upward flight,
The spirit to its worship going!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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By That Smile Which Made Me Blest

By that smile which made me blest,
And left me soon the wretch you see-
By that heart I once possest,
Which now, they say, is given to thee-
By St. Clara's wrongs and woes-
Trust not young Glenarvon's vows.

By those lays which breathe around
A poet's great and matchless art-
By that voice whose silver sound
Can soothe to peace th' imprisoned heart-
By every bitter pang I prove-
Trust not young Glenarvon's love.

Each brighter, kinder hope forsaking,
Bereft of all that made life dear
My health impaired, my spirit breaking,
Yet still too proud to shed one tear:
O! lady, by my wrongs and woes,
Trust not young Glenarvon's vows.

And when at length the hand of death
Shall bid St. Clara's heart be still-
When struggling with its latest breath,
His image shall her fancy fill,
Ah trust to one whose death shall prove
What fate attends Glenarvon's love.

poem by Lady Caroline Lamb
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Come To Me When I'm Dying

A SONG.

Come to me when I'm dying;
Gaze on my wasted form,
Tired with so long defying
Life's ever-rushing storm.
Come, come when I am dying,
And stand beside my bed,
Ere yet my soul is flying,
And I am cold and dead.

Bend low and lower o'er me,
For I've a word to say
Though death is just before me,
Ere I can go away.
Now that my soul is hovering
Upon the verge of day,
For thee I'll lift the covering
That veils its quivering ray.

O, ne'er had I thus spoken
In health's bright, rosy glow!
But death my pride hath broken,
And brought my spirit low.
Though now this last revealing
Quickens life's curdling springs,
And a half-timid feeling
Faint flushes o'er me flings.

Bend lower yet above me,
For I would have thee know
How passing well I love thee,
And joy to tell thee so.
This love, so purely welling
Up in this heart of mine,
O, hath it e'er found dwelling
Within thy spirit's shrine?

I've prayed my God, in meekness,
To give me some control
Over this earthly weakness
That so enthralled my soul;
And now my soul rejoices
While sweetly-thrilling strains,
From low, harmonious voices,
Soothe all my dying pains.

They sing of the Eternal,
Whose throne is far above,
Where zephyrs softly vernal
Float over bowers of love;
Of hopes and joys, earth-blighted,
Blooming 'neath cloudless skies,
Of hearts and souls united
In love that never dies.

'Tis there, 'tis there I'll meet thee
When life's brief day is o'er;
O, with what joy to greet thee
On that eternal shore!
Farewell! for death is chilling
My pulses swift and fast;
And yet in God I'm willing
This hour should be my last.

Sometimes, when day declineth,
And all the gorgeous west
In gold and purple shineth,
Go to my place of rest;
And if thy voice in weeping,
Is borne upon the air,
Think not of me as sleeping;
All cold and silent there:--

But turn, with glances tender,
Toward a shining star,
Whose rays with chastened splendor
Fall on thee from afar.
And know the blissful dwelling
Where I am waiting thee,
When Jordan fiercely swelling
Shall set thy spirit free.

poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Joy's Magic

Joy's is the magic sweet,
That makes Youth's pulses beat,
Puts music in young feet,
The old heart hears, the sad heart hears, that 's near it:

And Joy's the pleasant pain,
That holds us, heart and brain,
When Old Age, sound and sane,
With memories nears, long memories nears the spirit.

Joy's is the witchery rare,
That on the face of Care
Puts smiles; and rapture where
Love holds her breath, her heart's wild breath, to still her:

And Joy it is that plays
On Time's old lute of days
As Life goes on her ways
With thoughts of Death, gray thoughts of Death, that chill her.

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Insomnia

Thin are the night-skirts left behind
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit's wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.

Our lives, most dear, are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.

Is there a home where heavy earth
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love's new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
For ever nearer yet.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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My soul tells off my playful spirit

My soul tells off my playful spirit
Where is thine reverence it asks
I bow my head and ask forgiveness
But I know not for which giggling task

This soul has seen and felt deep love
And has touched great wonder sublime
It shares this love with its true dearest
Sending spirit free for playful rhyme

So when soul tells off my playful spirit
It's hard to take it seriously
As spirit knows that soul has caused
My love to spill for you deliriously

poem by Harriet James
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My One And Only Love

The very thought of you makes
My heart sing
Like an April breeze
On the wings of spring
And you appear in all your splendour
My one and only love
The shadows fall
And spread their mystic charms
In the hush of night
While you're in my arms
I feel your lips so warm and tender
My one and only love
The touch of your hand is like heaven
A heaven that I've never known
The blush on your cheek
Whenever I speak
Tells me that you are my own
You fill my eager heart with
Such desire
Every kiss you give
Sets my soul on fire
I give myself in sweet surrender
My one and only love
The blush on your cheek
Whenever I speak
Tells me that you are my own
You fill my eager heart with
Such desire
Every kiss you give
Sets my soul on fire
I give myself in sweet surrender
My one and only love
My one and only love

song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lover’s Song

[ANGELO, Act II., May, 1835.]

My soul unto thy heart is given,
In mystic fold do they entwine,
So bound in one that, were they riven,
Apart my soul would life resign.
Thou art my song and I the lyre;
Thou art the breeze and I the brier;
The altar I, and thou the fire;
Mine the deep love, the beauty thine!
As fleets away the rapid hour
While weeping--may
My sorrowing lay
Touch thee, sweet flower.

poem by Victor Hugo
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