I could love thee till I die, Wouldst thou love me modestly, And ne'er press, whilst I live, For more than willingly I would give: Which should sufficient be to prove I'd understand the art of love. I hate the thing is called enjoyment: Besides it is a dull employment, It cuts off all that's life and fire From that which may be termed desire; Just like the bee whose sting is gone Converts the owner to a drone. I love a youth will give me leave His body in my arms to wreathe; To press him gently, and to kiss; To sigh, and look with eyes that wish For what, if I could once obtain, I would neglect with flat disdain. I'd give him liberty to toy And play with me, and count it joy. Our freedom should be full complete, And nothing wanting but the feat. Let's practice, then, and we shall prove These are the only sweets of love. 23-24: possibly alluding to Marlowe's famous lyric: Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove... | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY by WILLIAM MCKENDREE CARLETON JOHN BROWN'S BODY by CHARLES SPRAGUE HALL THE REALM OF FANCY by JOHN KEATS SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 2 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY DRINKING ODE by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE LAIS' MIRROR by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS |