“For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.”

“Before the beginning of yearsThere came to the making of manTime, with a gift of tears;Grief, with a glass that ran;Pleasure, with pain for leaven;Summer, with flowers that fell;Remembrance, fallen from heaven,And madness risen from hell;Strength without hands to smite;Love that endures for a breath;Night, the shadow of light,And Life, the shadow of death.”

“To fill the days up of his dateless yearFlame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere?For first of all the sphery signs wherebyLove severs light from darkness, and most high,In the white front of January there glowsThe rose-red sign of Helen like a rose:And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterlessWhereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness,A storm-star that the seafarers of loveStrain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of,Shoots keen through February's grey frost and dampThe lamplike star of Hero for a lamp;The star that Marlowe sang into our skiesWith mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes;And in clear March across the rough blue seaThe signal sapphire of AlcyoneMakes bright the blown bross of the wind-foot year;And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tearFull ere it fall, the fair next sign in sightBurns opal-wise with April-coloured lightWhen air is quick with song and rain and flame,My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath nameIseult, a light of blossom and beam and shower,My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower;Next like a pale and burning pearl beyondThe rose-white sphere of flower-named RosamondSigns the sweet head of Maytime; and for JuneFlares like an angered and storm-reddening moonHer signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyreShadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire;Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone,A star south-risen that first to music shone,The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bearsLight northward to the month whose forehead wearsHer name for flower upon it, and his treesMix their deep English song with Veronese;And like an awful sovereign chrysoliteBurning, the supreme fire that blinds the night,The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars,A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars,The light of Cleopatra fills and burnsThe hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns;And fixed and shining as the sister-shedSweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead,The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere,That through September sees the saddening yearAs love sees change through sorrow, hath to nameFrancesca's; and the star that watches flameThe embers of the harvest overgoneIs Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon,Set in the golden girdle of sweet signsA blood-bright ruby; last save one light shinesAn eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras,The star that made men mad, Angelica's; And latest named and lordliest, with a soundOf swords and harps in heaven that ring it round,Last love-light and last love-song of the year's,Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.”

“Love, is it morning risen or night deceasedThat makes the mirth of this triumphant east?Is it bliss given or bitterness put byThat makes most glad men's hearts at love's high feast?Grief smiles, joy weeps, that day should live and die."Is it with soul's thirst or with body's drouthThat summer yearns out sunward to the south,With all the flowers that when thy birth drew nighWere molten in one rose to make thy mouth?O love, what care though day should live and die?"Is the sun glad of all love on earth,The spirit and sense and work of things and worth?Is the moon sad because the month must flyAnd bring her death that can but bring back birth?For all these things as day must live and die."Love, is it day that makes thee thy delightOr thou that seest day made out of thy light?Love, as the sun and sea are thou and I,Sea without sun dark, sun without sea bright;The sun is one though day should live and die."O which is elder, night or light, who knows?And life or love, which first of these twain grows?For life is born of love to wail and cry,And love is born of life to heal his woes,And light of night, that day should live and die."O sun of heaven above the wordly sea,O very love, what light is this of thee!My sea of soul is deep as thou art high,But all thy light is shed through all of me,As love's through love, while day shall live and die.”

“I wish we were dead together to-day, Lost sight of, hidden away out of sight, Clasped and clothed in the cloven clay,Out of the world's way, out of the light, Out of the ages of worldly weather, Forgotten of all men altogether,As the world's first dead, taken wholly away,Made one with death, filled full of the night.”

“If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together, In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.”

“A MatchIf love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf,Our lives would grow togetherIn sad or singing weather,Blown fields or flowerful closes,Green pasture or gray grief;If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf.If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune,With double sound and singleDelight our lips would mingle,With kisses glad as birds areThat get sweet rain at noon;If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune.If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death,We'd shine and snow togetherEre March made sweet the weatherWith daffodil and starlingAnd hours of fruitful breath;If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death.If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy,We'd play for lives and seasonsWith loving looks and treasonsAnd tears of night and morrowAnd laughs of maid and boy;If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy.If you were April's lady,And I were lord in May,We'd throw with leaves for hoursAnd draw for days with flowers,Till day like night were shadyAnd night were bright like day;If you were April's lady,And I were lord in May.If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain,We'd hunt down love together,Pluck out his flying-feather,And teach his feet a measure,And find his mouth a rein;If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain.”