Desire

O Lyric Love, half angel and half bird, And all a wonder and a wild desire.

Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 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.

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O, for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose, Blendeth its odour with the violet,— Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes’ moon hath set.

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot.

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight!

Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure.

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

Had ripened into faith, and faith become A passionate intuition.

Grown old in love from seven till seven times seven, I oft have wish’d for Hell for ease from Heaven.

O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

What is it men in women do require? The lineaments of Gratified Desire. What is it women do in men require? The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

Abstinence sows sand all over The ruddy limbs and flaming hair, But Desire gratified Plants fruits of life and beauty there.

Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit? Or wilt thou go ask the Mole? Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod? Or Love in a golden bowl?

I love those who yearn for the impossible.

O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

What female heart can gold despise? What cat’s averse to fish?

Whoever you are, behold your master, He is, or was, or has to be. 13