Early Love

Who says I wrong thee, my half-opened rose?

Little he knows of thee or me, or love.–

I am so tender of thy fragile youth,

Yea, in my hours of wildest ecstasy,

Keeping close-bitted each careering sense.

Only I give mine eyes unmeasured law

To feed them where they will, and _their_ delight

Was curbed at first, until thy tender shame

Died in the bearing of thy first born joy.

I am not cruel, my half-opened rose,

Though in the sunshine of my own desire

I have uncurled thy petals to the light

And fed the tendrils of thy dawning sense

With delicate caresses, till they leave

Thee tremulous with the newness of thy joy,

Sharing thy lover’s fire with innocent flame.

Others will wrong thee, that I well foresee,

Being a man, knowing my fellow men,

And they who, knowing, would blame my love of thee

Contentedly will see thy beauty given,

When the world judges thou art ripe to wed,–

To the rough rites of marriage, to the pain

And grievous weariness of child-getting,–

This shall be right and licit in their eyes–

But it would break my heart, were I alive.

Yea, this will be; many will doubtless share

The rose whose bud has been my one delight,

And I shall not be there to shield my flower.

Yet, I have taught thee of the ways of men,

Much I have learnt in cities and in courts,

Winnowed to suit thy tender brain,–is thine,

Thus Life shall find thee, not all unprepared

To face its callous, subtle cruelties.

Still,–it will profit little; I discern

Thou art of those whose love will prove their curse,

–Thou sayest thou lovest me, to thy delight?

Nay, little one, it is not love as yet.

Dear as thou art, and lovely, thou canst not love,

Thy later loves shall show the truth of this.

Ay, by some subtle signs I know full well

That thou art capable of that great love

Whose glory has the light of unknown heavens,

And makes hot Hell for those who harbour it.

Naught I can say could save thee from thyself,

Ah, were I half my age! Yet even that,

Had been too old for thy sweet thirteenth year.

Still, thou art happy now, and glad thine eyes,

When, as the lilac evening gains the sky,

I lay thee, ‘twixt thine own soft hair and me,

Kissing thy senses into soft delight.

Ruffling the petals of my half-closed rose

With tender touches, and perpetual care

That no wild moment of mine own delight

Deep in the flower’s heart,–should set the fruit.

Ah, in the days to come, it well may be,

When thou shalt see thy beauty stained and torn

By the harsh sequel of some future love,

Thy thoughts shall stray to thy first lover’s grave,

And thou shalt murmur, “Ay, but that was love.

They were most wrong who said he did me wrong.

Only I was too young to understand.”

Poetry Monster – Home

A few random poems:

External links

Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus

Talking Writing Monster’s Page –

Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh

Poems in English 

• In Commendation Of Musick by William Strode by William Strode
• Her Epitaph by William Strode by William Strode
• For A Gentleman, Who, Kissinge His Friend At His Departure Left A Signe Of Blood On Her by William Strode by William Strode
• Epitaph On Mr. Bridgeman by William Strode by William Strode
• Consolatorium, Ad Parentes by William Strode by William Strode
• Chloris in the Snow by William Strode by William Strode
• Anthem For Good Fryday by William Strode by William Strode
• An Epitaph On Sr John Walter, Lord Cheife Baron by William Strode by William Strode
• An Epitaph On Mr. Fishborne The Great London Benefactor, And His Executor by William Strode by William Strode
• An Eare-Stringe by William Strode by William Strode
• An Antheme by William Strode by William Strode
• A Watch-String by William Strode by William Strode
• A Watch Sent Home To Mrs. Eliz: King, Wrapt In Theis Verses by William Strode by William Strode
• A Translation Of The Nightingale Out Of Strada by William Strode by William Strode
• A Superscription On Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, Sent For A Token by William Strode by William Strode
• A Strange Gentlewoman Passing By His Window by William Strode by William Strode
• A Song On The Baths by William Strode by William Strode
• A Song On A Sigh by William Strode by William Strode
• A Riddle: On A Kiss by William Strode by William Strode
• A Purse-String by William Strode by William Strode

More external links (open in a new tab):

Russian Commerce Agency

Dealing Monster

Doska or the Board – write anything

Search engines:

Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)

Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.

Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works