If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say, "I love her for her smile -- her look -- her way Of speaking gently, -- for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" -- For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee -- and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry: A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways, and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains -- alas, too few!
The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine? --
See the mountains kiss high heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth And the moonbeams kiss the sea: What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be? -- By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone, -- and the birch in its stead has grown. -- The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust; -- His soul is with the saints, I trust.
I made my song a coat Covered with embroideries Out of old mythologies From heel to throat; But the fools caught it, Wore it in the world's eyes As though they'd wrought it. Song, let them take it For there's more enterprise In walking naked.
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective it is best the painter's art. For through the painter must you see his skill To find where your true image pictur'd lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee. Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art; They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 