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Love, Romance and You Know What!  
And all her body pasture to mine eyes; The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire, The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south, The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire. Algernon Charles Swinburne  ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. John Keats - to Fanny Brawne And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, "This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces." William Shakespeare Or snow, or whitest Swans you are: More white then are the whitest Creames, Or Moone-light Tinselling the streames: More white then Pearls, or Juno's thigh; Or Penlop's Arme of Yvorie. True, I confesse; such Whites as these May me delight, not fully please: Till, like Ixion's cloud you be White, warme, and soft to lye with me. Robert Herrick 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 every day'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. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!-and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Elizabeth Barrett Browning I will renounce fame, creativity, everything. Frederick Chopin - to his mistress Delphine Potocka The very eyes of me: And hast command of every part To live and die for thee. Robert Herrick - To Anthea For Friendship sounds too cold, While Love is now a worldly flame, Whose shrine must be of gold; And Passion, like the sun at noon, That burns o'er all he sees, Awhile as warm, will set as soon - Then, call it none of these. Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human still as they. Thomas Moore - Ballads, Songs, etc. to Lotte von Lengefeld Man: Behold how fair thou art, my love, thy hair is of the balm of Gilead, thy teeth white as the fresh shorn sheep, thy lips are scarlet, thy speech charms all. Thy breasts are as twin young roses, that thrive among the lilies. Until daybreak and the shadows flee, I will visit the mountain of myrrh, the hill of frankincense. Thou has ravished my heart, my sweetheart, my bride, how much better is thy love than mine. And the smell of thy person than all the s./pices. Honey and milk are under thy tongue. Thy garments are like the smell of cedar, thou art a garden enclosed, orchard of pleasure fruits, all the chief s./pices, a well of living waters. There are threescore queens and fourscore concubines and virgins without number await. My spotless dove is the one. Woman: Awake O north wind, blow on my garden. Fill the air with fragrance, let my lover come to his garden and eat his fruit of delight. Man: I have entered my garden, my sweetheart, my bride, I am gathering my s./pices and myrrh. I am eating my honey, I am drinking my wine. O beloved, drink copiously. Woman: I have already disrobed. Why should I get dressed again? Carefully bathed, shall I rise? My lover put his hand to the doorhole and my body thrilled and moved. I rose up to my beloved, my hands dripped with myrrh, fingers of sweet myrrh grasped the handle. My lover is handsome and strong, he is chief in ten thousand. His cheeks are as beds of herbs, s./pices and flowers. His lips are like lilies wet with liquid fragrant myrrh. Man: The curve and join of your thighs are as jewels to be worked by a craftsman. Thy navel is like a chalice, never empty of cordial, thy belly is like a sheaf of wheat set with lilies, thy breasts are as twin roses. The delights of your love are without number. You are as graceful as a palm tree; I will clasp the boughs. Your breasts are as clusters of grapes. Your breath the fragrance of apples, and your mouth the finest wine. Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove so spotless. Woman: My mother instructs me, have you drink the juice of my pomegranate, Left hand under my head, right hand to caress me. Quickly my love, be like a young stag on the mound of s./pice.
This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Should'st rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood: And you should if you please refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze. Two hundred to adore each breast; But thirty thousand to the rest. An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For lady, you deserve this state; Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. Ah! She did depart! Soon after she was gone from me, A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly: He took her with a sigh. William Blake do you have to do so much of it? Jean Illsley Clarke - Self-Esteem: A Family Affair would I have felt had you been faithful? Jean Racine - Andromache And loved your beauty with love false and true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you And loved the sorrows of your changing face. W B Yeats - When You Are Old   manpower@rediffmail.com |
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