I’AVE often wish’d to love; what shall I do?
Me still the cruel boy does spare;
And I a double task must bear,
First to woo him, and then a mistress too.
Come at last and strike, for shame,
If thou art any thing besides a name;
I’ll think thee else no God to be,
But poets rather Gods, who first created thee.
I ask not one in whom all beauties grow;
Let me but love, whate’er she be,
She cannot seem deform’d to me;
And I would have her seem to others so.
Desire takes wings and straight does fly,
It stays not dully to inquire the Why.
That happy thing, a lover, grown,
I shall not see with others’ eyes, scarce with mine own.
If she be coy, and scorn my noble fire;
If her chill heart I cannot move;
Why I’ll enjoy the very love,
And make a mistress of my own desire.
Flames their most vigorous heat do hold,
And purest light, if compass’d round with cold:
So, when sharp winter means most harm,
The springing plants are by the snow itself kept warm.
But do not touch my heart, and so be gone;
Strike deep thy burning arrows in!
Lukewarmness I account a sin,
As great in love as in religion.
Come arm’d with flames; for I would prove
All the extremities of mighty Love.
Th’ excess of heat is but a fable;
We know the torrid zone is now found habitable.
Among the woods and forests thou art found,
There boars and lions thou dost tame;
Is not my heart a nobler game?
Let Venus, men; and beasts, Diana, wound!
Thou dost the birds thy subjects make;
Thy nimble feathers do their wings o’ertake:
Thou all the spring their songs dost hear;
Make me love too, I’ll sing to’ thee all the year!
What service can mute fishes do to thee?
Yet against them thy dart prevails,
Piercing the armour of their scales;
And still thy sea-born mother lives i’th’ sea.
Dost thou deny only to me
The no-great privilege of captivity?
I beg or challenge here thy bow;
Either thy pity to me, or else thine anger, show.
Come! or I ‘ll teach the world to scorn that bow:
I’ll teach them thousand wholesome arts
Both to resist and cure thy darts,
More than thy skilful Ovid e’er did know.
Musick of sighs thou shalt not hear,
Nor drink one wretched lover’s tasteful tear:
Nay, unless soon thou woundest me,
My verses shall not only wound, but murder, thee.
A few random poems:
- Vocation by Rabindranath Tagore
- Keepen Up O’ Chris’mas by William Barnes
- The Star by Sara Teasdale
- In Memoriam 16: I envy not in any moods poem – Lord Alfred Tennyson poems
- XIII: Some Verses: On A Report On The Death Of The Author by William Alexander
- Нина Воронель – Предчувствие погрома
- Pathetic Way Of Getting Over Me by Shel Silverstein
- Follow Me ‘ome by Rudyard Kipling
- Robert Burns: Craigieburn Wood:
- Владимир Маяковский – Ни знахарство, ни благодать бога в болезни не подмога
- Tumi Sandhyar Meghamala – You Are A Cluster Of Clouds – Translation by Rabindranath Tagore
- Flirting by Satish Verma
- Music poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry
- Robert Burns: Their Groves O’Sweet Myrtle :
- Away, Melancholy by Stevie Smith
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
- The Old Stone Cross by William Butler Yeats
- The Old Men Admiring Themselves In The Water by William Butler Yeats
- The Old Age Of Queen Maeve by William Butler Yeats
- The Nineteenth Century And After by William Butler Yeats
- The New Faces by William Butler Yeats
- The Municipal Gallery Revisited by William Butler Yeats
- The Mountain Tomb by William Butler Yeats
- The Mother Of God by William Butler Yeats
- The Moods by William Butler Yeats
- The Meditation Of The Old Fisherman by William Butler Yeats
- The Mask by William Butler Yeats
- The Man Who Dreamed Of Faeryland by William Butler Yeats
- The Magi by William Butler Yeats
- The Madness Of King Goll by William Butler Yeats
- The Lover’s Song by William Butler Yeats
- The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart by William Butler Yeats
- The Lover Pleads With His Friend For Old Friends by William Butler Yeats
- The Lover Mourns For The Loss Of Love by William Butler Yeats
- The Lover Asks Forgiveness Because Of His Many Moods by William Butler Yeats
- The Living Beauty by William Butler Yeats
More external links (open in a new tab):
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.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works

Abraham Cowley (1618 – 1667), the Royalist Poet.Poet and essayist Abraham Cowley was born in London, England, in 1618. He displayed early talent as a poet, publishing his first collection of poetry, Poetical Blossoms (1633), at the age of 15. Cowley studied at Cambridge University but was stripped of his Cambridge fellowship during the English Civil War and expelled for refusing to sign the Solemn League and Covenant of 1644. In turn, he accompanied Queen Henrietta Maria to France, where he spent 12 years in exile, serving as her secretary. During this time, Cowley completed The Mistress (1647). Arguably his most famous work, the collection exemplifies Cowley’s metaphysical style of love poetry. After the Restoration, Cowley returned to England, where he was reinstated as a Cambridge fellow and earned his MD before finally retiring to the English countryside. He is buried at Westminster Abbey alongside Geoffrey Chaucer and Edmund Spenser. Cowley is a wonderful poet and an outstanding representative of the English baroque.