Sonnet I47

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please:

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I, desperate, now approve

Desire to death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now reason in past care,

And frantic mad with ever more unrest;

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,

At random from the truth vainly expressed:

For I hvae sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)

'One Day I Wrote Her Name upon the Strand'

One Day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and washed it away;

Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

'Vain man,' said she, 'that dost in vain assay

A mortal thing so to immortalize,

For I myself shall like to this decay,

And eke my name be wiped out likewise.'

'Not so,' quod I, 'let baser things devise

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:

My verse your vitues rare shall eternize

And in the heavens write your glorious name,

Where, when as Death shall all the world subdue,

Our love shall live, and later life renew.'

EDMUND SPENSER (1552-1599)

To Evelina Hanka, 1833

To you, my love, a thousantenernesss. Yesterday, I have been rushing about the whole day; I found myself so fatigued that I allowed mysel to sleep all night, and then I made a mental prayer to my idol. I went to sleep in sweet thoughts of you, as if married, I should have slept in the arms of my well-beloved. Good heavens; I am terrified to see how much my life is yours. With what rapidity it rushes towards your heart. Your arteries beat as much for me as for yourself. Adored darling, how much good your letters do me. I believe in you, you see, as I believe in my respiration. I am with regard to this bliss like a child, like a man of science, like a fool taking care of tulips. I weep with rage at not being near you. I collect all my ideas in order to develop this love, and I am here watching incessantly for it to increase without obstructions. Is there not something in this of the child, the man of science, and the botanist?

I must, my angel, resume my drudgery; but it will not be without having laid before you here all the flowers of my heart, a thousand tenderness’s, a thousand caresses, all the vows of a poor solitary who lives between his thoughts and his love.

Goodbye, my cherished beauty; one kiss on those beautiful red lips, so fresh, so tender, a kiss which goes far, which encompasses you. I do not say goodbye to you. Oh! When shall I have your dear portrait? If you happen to get it mounted, let it be kept between two enamel plates and let the whole of it not be thicker than a five-franc piece, for I wish to wear it always over my heart. It will be my talisman; I shall feel it there; I shall gather strength and courage from it. From it will dart forth the rays of that fame which I want to be so great, so wide, so radiant, to envelope you in its light.

Well I must quit you, always with regret. But once free and without worries, what sweet pilgrimage. This is the   reason why I work so hard. Ah, God! How happy the rich are. They travel post haste and fly like swallows. But my thought travels more quickly, and every night it creeps around your heart, it covers you.

HONORE DE BALZAC (1799-1850) 

Wild Nights! Wild Nights!

Wild Nights! Wild Nights!

Were I with thee,

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile the winds

To a heart in port, -

Done with the compass,

Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!

Ah! the sea!

Might I but moor

To-night in thee!

EMILY DICKINSON (1830-86)

My Love is Like to Ice

My love is like to ice, and I to fire:

How comes it then that this her cold so great

Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,

But harder grows the more I her entreat?

Or how comes it that my exceeding heat 

Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,

But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,

And feel my flames augmented mainfold?

What more miraculous thing may be told,

That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,

And ice, which is congealed with senseless cold,

Should kindle fire by wonderful device?

Such is the power of love in gentle mind, 

That it can alter all the course of kind.

EDMUND SPENSER (1552-99)