A Medieval Love Poem: 'Yet would I not the causer fared amiss'

Lovers, from British Library, Royal 6 E VII, f.150

Yet would I not the causer fared amiss,
For all the good that ever I had or shall;
Therefore I take mine aventure, iwiss,
As she that hath forsaken joys all,
And to all pain is both subject and thrall.
Lo, thus I stand without words mo, [more]
All void of joy and full of pain and woe.

Now ye that are in mirth and plesaunce [joy]
Have mind on me who was sometime in ease
And had the world at mine own ordynaunce, [at my control]
Which now is turned into all dis-ease.
Now glad were she who Fortune so could please,
That she might stand in very sycurnesse, [true security]
Never to feel the stroke of unkindness!

Departing is the ground of displesaunce,
Most in my heart of any thing earthly.
I you ensure wholly in remembrance
Within myself, I think it verily,
Which shall continue with me daily,
Since that ye must needs depart me fro; [from]
It is to me a very deadly woe.


[A paraphrase: Yet I would not wish that the causer of my sorrow fared amiss, for all the good that ever I had or shall have; therefore I take my fortune, truly, like one who has forsaken all joys, and who to all pain is both subject and thrall. Lo, thus I stand without any further words, all void of joy and full of pain and woe.
Now you who live in mirth and joy, think on me who was sometime in ease, and had the world at my disposal, which now is turned into all trouble. Now glad would she be who could so please Fortune that she might stand in true security, never to feel the blow of unkindness!
Parting is the greatest cause of sorrow in my heart of any earthly thing. I keep you wholly in remembrance within myself, I think truly, and it shall stay with me daily, since you must depart from  me; it is to me a very deadly woe.]


This is a poem from the Findern manuscript (Cambridge University Library Ff.1.6), a fifteenth-century anthology which belonged to a family in southern Derbyshire (named, and living in, Findern), and which contains a variety of verses by many different authors. There's some chunks of Chaucer and texts attributed to Hoccleve and Lydgate, but the more interesting poems are the anonymous ones, several of which (like this one) seem to be spoken by female voices. There are women's names written in the manuscript, and women certainly read and probably composed a number of these poems. Thus, this group of poems has got quite a bit of attention in recent years, and I've posted two of them here and here.

Their style appeals to me: the syntax is intricate but the vocabulary is simple, and there are few poetic flourishes - or rather, they are subordinated to the sense of the text. The stylistic ornament, such as it is, lies in the repeating and negating of certain key words - ease and disease, plesaunce and displesaunce - and the play of pronouns, from me to ye (plural) and the imagined other she, until in the last verse you, 'the causer', the object of love, is finally addressed. Long sentences wind around short phrases which stab with a startling directness: 'all void of joy and full of pain'; 'departing is the ground of displesaunce'; 'it is to me a very deadly woe.' The opening in particular is strikingly abrupt, so much so that we might wonder if a previous verse has been lost - but most of the poems surrounding this one deal with similar themes and situations of parted lovers, and they almost flow into one another (only the verse form and the genders of the speakers change). Such abrupt beginnings are not unknown in fifteenth-century verse; English poets had just discovered how effective they can be! This one works because it leads into a poem whose power lies in its confronting frankness, especially in that bold first stanza, and in the proud declaration 'Therefore I take mine aventure' ('I accept my fortune', or 'I take my chance'). Brave woman!


When I first encountered a handful of the Findern poems in a modern anthology, I remember being irked because the editor insisted on repeatedly describing them as 'felt' - 'and what kind of critical vocabulary is that?' I asked myself crossly, with all the arrogance of a first-year graduate student. But now I sympathise with that editor. It's difficult to talk about these poems without pronouncing on the veracity of their 'feeling', and the experiences they purport to describe - they seem to have more truth about them than most medieval lyrics, which are such a highly conventional form. But these poems are conventional too, and of course their degree of 'truth' doesn't have anything to do with their literary quality. The best one might say is that they strongly convey an idea of heartfelt and sincere love; if it's a poetic illusion, it's a good one. In a previous post, I compared them to the sonnets of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but I think Christina Rossetti would understand them too (read them alongside Monna Innominata...).

On another note, it's a source of satisfaction to me that if you google 'medieval love poem', among the top results is a post from this blog about the Findern poem 'Where I have chosen, steadfast will I be'. This fact pleases me for two reasons: firstly because it seems right that an actual medieval text should be presented to people looking for medieval love poems, alongside the rather odd pastiches which Google's vagaries throw up; and secondly, because the Findern poems are so untypical as medieval love poems go. In their air of simplicity and honesty, their absence of physical description, and their focus on memory, interiority and what Jane Austen would call 'retentive feelings', they have little in common with the mainstream literature of their age. Personally, I have limited patience with the majority of medieval love-literature, which set the pattern for much that is most unpleasant about educated men's behaviour towards women, even today; elaborate courtly games of flirtation are not to my taste, and Anglo-Saxon literature is all the better for having so little to say about romantic love - they had so many other things to be interested in! So if the casual Googler seeks a medieval love poem, why should he or she not encounter the plain-speaking fidelity of a Derbyshire gentlewoman, as well as the high-flown nonsense of courtly love, where men profess their adoration for women they have only glimpsed, and protest they'll die if these women don't obey their passing whims? I consider this high Google rating my own little triumph for gender parity in medieval studies ;) So go and read 'Where I have chosen, steadfast will I be', and do your bit...

And then reflect on whether the women who liked these poems would have agreed with Anne Elliot (from Persuasion, ch.23):

'We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions... Your feelings may be the strongest... but ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed' (with a faltering voice), 'if woman's feelings were to be added to all this.'

Or with this, one of the few points on which Anne and Chaucer's Wife of Bath (688-696) find common ground:

'Well, Miss Elliot,' (lowering his voice,) 'as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point. No man and woman, would, probably. But let me observe that all histories are against you - all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men.'

'Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything.'

Sketch of a woman playing a lute, on the last leaf of BL Sloane 554

This is the text as transcribed in Rossell Hope Robbins, 'The Findern Anthology', PMLA 69:3 (June, 1954), pp.610-642:

yit wulde I nat the causer faryd a-mysse,
ffor all the good that euer y had or schall;
Ther-for y take myn auenture, I-wisse,
As sche that hath for-saken Ioyus all,
And to all payne is bothe soiet and thralle.
Lo, thus I stonde with-owten wordes moo,
All voyde of Ioy an full of payne and woo.

Now ye that bathe in myrthe and plesaunce
Haue mynde on me that was sum-tyme in ease
And had the world at myn ovne ordynaunce,
Whiche now is turned in-to al disease;
Now glad wher sche that fortune so cowde please,
That sche myght stonde in verry sycurnesse,
Neuer to fele the stroke of vnkyndnesse.

Departyng ys the grownde of dysplesaunce,
Most in my hert of eny thing erthly,
I you ensure holy in remembraunce
With-in my-self y thenke hit verryly,
Wiche schall contynu with me dayly;
Syns that 3e moste nedys departe me fro,
It ys to me a verry dedly woo.

Psalm Translations: Out of the deep

(Disclaimer: these are not all translations. It's just a small selection of words and music based on, or inspired by, Psalm 130.)

From the Book of Common Prayer:

1 Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord : Lord, hear my voice.
2 O let thine ears consider well : the voice of my complaint.
3 If thou, Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss : O Lord, who may abide it?
4 For there is mercy with thee : therefore shalt thou be feared.
5 I look for the Lord; my soul doth wait for him : in his word is my trust.
6 My soul fleeth unto the Lord : before the morning watch, I say, before the morning watch.
7 O Israel, trust in the Lord, for with the Lord there is mercy : and with him is plenteous redemption.
8 And he shall redeem Israel : from all his sins.

Thomas Morley (the best of a poor selection on youtube):



From the earliest complete English prose Psalter (here) - the Midland Prose Psalter (c1350–1400):

1. Ich cried, Lord, to þe for þe depe; Lord, here my uoice.
2. Ben þin eres made vnder-stondand to þe voice of mi praier.
3. Lord, yif þou hast kept wickednes, Lord, who shal holde hem vp?
4. For help is to þe, & ich susteined þe, Lorde, for þy lawe.
5. My soule helde vp gode in his worde, my soule hoped in our Lord.
6. Hope, þe folk of Israel, in our Lord fram þe mornynge kepinge vn-to þe niyt.
7. For merci is at our Lord, & at him is plentiuose raunsoun.
8. And he shal raunsoun þe folk of Israel fram alle her wickednes.

Orlando di Lassus:



From the Wycliffite Bible, c.1390s:

1 Lord, Y criede to thee fro depthes; Lord, here thou mi vois.
2 Thin eeris be maad ententif; in to the vois of my biseching.
3 Lord, if thou kepist wickidnessis; Lord, who schal susteyne?
4 For merci is at thee; and, Lord, for thi lawe Y abood thee.
5 Mi soule susteynede in his word; my soule hopide in the Lord,
6 Fro the morewtid keping til to niyt; Israel, hope in the Lord.
7 For whi, merci is at the Lord; and plenteous redempcioun is at hym.
8 And he schal ayenbie Israel; fro alle the wickidnessis therof.

'Ayenbie' is typical of the diction of the Wycliffite Psalms; it's literally 'again-buy', that is, ransom.

Orlando Gibbons:



Christina Rossetti, De Profundis:

Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.

I never watch the scatter'd fire
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.



And a poem of the same name by the young C. S. Lewis (published in Spirits in Bondage, 1919):

Come let us curse our Master ere we die,
For all our hopes in endless ruin lie.
The good is dead. Let us curse God most High.

Four thousand years of toil and hope and thought
Wherein man laboured upward and still wrought
New worlds and better, Thou hast made as naught.

We built us joyful cities, strong and fair,
Knowledge we sought and gathered wisdom rare.
And all this time you laughed upon our care,

And suddenly the earth grew black with wrong,
Our hope was crushed and silenced was our song,
The heaven grew loud with weeping. Thou art strong.

Come then and curse the Lord. Over the earth
Gross darkness falls, and evil was our birth
And our few happy days of little worth.

Even if it be not all a dream in vain
— The ancient hope that still will rise again —
Of a just God that cares for earthly pain,

Yet far away beyond our labouring night,
He wanders in the depths of endless light,
Singing alone his musics of delight;

Only the far, spent echo of his song
Our dungeons and deep cells can smite along,
And Thou art nearer. Thou art very strong.

O universal strength, I know it well,
It is but froth of folly to rebel;
For thou art Lord and hast the keys of Hell.

Yet I will not bow down to thee nor love thee,
For looking in my own heart I can prove thee,
And know this frail, bruised being is above thee.

Our love, our hope, our thirsting for the right,
Our mercy and long seeking of the light,
Shall we change these for thy relentless might?

Laugh then and slay. Shatter all things of worth,
Heap torment still on torment for thy mirth—
Thou art not Lord while there are Men on earth.

Considering the lilies

Two poems by Christina Rossetti, based on Matthew 6:25-34:

Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?

Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Consider (1866)

Consider
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:—
We are as they;
Like them we fade away,
As doth a leaf.

Consider
The sparrows of the air of small account:
Our God doth view
Whether they fall or mount,—
He guards us too.

Consider
The lilies that do neither spin nor toil,
Yet are most fair:—
What profits all this care
And all this coil?

Consider
The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;
God gives them food:—
Much more our Father seeks
To do us good.



Consider the Lilies of the Field

Flowers preach to us if we will hear:--
The rose saith in the dewy morn:
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn.
The poppy saith amid the corn:
Let but my scarlet head appear
And I am held in scorn;
Yet juice of subtle virtue lies
Within my cup of curious dyes.
The lilies say: Behold how we
Preach without words of purity.
The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made:
Men scent our fragrance on the air,
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.
But not alone the fairest flowers:
The merest grass
Along the roadside where we pass,
Lichen and moss and sturdy weed,
Tell of His love who sends the dew,
The rain and sunshine too,
To nourish one small seed.



The second is better, to my taste (some of the rhymes in the first are a little dodgy) - but it's interesting that she was moved to write two such different poems on the theme.

"All simple-souled, dove-hearted and dove-eyed"

Today is Whitsun Tuesday and so here is Christina Rossetti's poem, appropriately, 'Whitsun Tuesday'. I hadn't realised this before but apparently she wrote poems for almost every significant date in the church's calendar, as devout Victorian poets sometimes liked to do (under the influence of Keble's immensely popular The Christian Year, I suppose). Rossetti's collection is called Some Feasts and Fasts and some of the poems aren't... great, but others are rather good when read in isolation - one of her most famous poems, 'Love came down at Christmas', among them.

You can make up your own mind about 'Whitsun Tuesday'.



Lord Jesus Christ, our Wisdom and our Rest,
Who wisely dost reveal and wisely hide,
Grant us such grace in wisdom to abide
According to Thy Will whose Will is best.
Contented with Thine uttermost behest,
Too sweet for envy and too high for pride;
All simple-souled, dove-hearted and dove-eyed,
Soft-voiced, and satisfied in humble nest.
Wondering at the bounty of Thy Love
Which gives us wings of silver and of gold;
Wings folded close, yet ready to unfold
When Thou shalt say, "Winter is past and gone:"
When Thou shalt say, "Spouse, sister, love and dove,
Come hither, sit with Me upon My Throne."

"My heart is like a singing bird"

Continuing yesterday's youtube theme, this video is an absolutely perfect combination of words, music and pictures - for none of which am I responsible, but which I highly recommend. (Also, I know the birthday is this poem is a metaphorical one, but today actually is my birthday, and I couldn't think of anything else to post about...)

A Blessing

A poem from Christina Rossetti's Monna Innominata sonnet sequence (it's not really called 'A Blessing' but that's how I think of it).



Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona. - Dante
Amor m'addusse in sì gioiosa spene. - Petrarca

O my heart's heart, and you who are to me
More than myself myself, God be with you,
Keep you in strong obedience leal and true
To Him whose noble service setteth free,
Give you all good we see or can foresee,
Make your joys many and your sorrows few,
Bless you in what you bear and what you do,
Yea, perfect you as He would have you be.
So much for you; but what for me, dear friend?
To love you without stint and all I can
Today, tomorrow, world without an end;
To love you much and yet to love you more,
As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore;
Since woman is the helpmeet made for man.

But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?

This poem goes with Dover Beach, I think - the irresponsive sounding of the sea...


Aloof
Christina Rossetti

The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek,
And all the world and I seem'd much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.

Mirage

The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake.

I hang my harp upon a tree,
A weeping willow in a lake;
I hang my silenced harp there, wrung and snapt
For a dream's sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;
My silent heart, lie still and break:
Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed
For a dream's sake.


Christina Rossetti

'Echo' and other Poems

I'm a little bit obsessed at the moment with this setting of Christina Rossetti's poem 'Echo' (and not just because the combination of Rossetti and Julia Margaret Cameron happens to be a marriage of my current two Favourite Things):



Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low
As long ago, my love, how long ago.

There are settings of other Rossetti poems by the same composer on youtube which are equally lovely ('My heart is like a singing bird' and 'Remember me' are my favourites), and also this and this and this by Emily Bronte. Beautiful settings and superb videos; check them out!

The longing of a heart pent up forlorn

Here's a nice cheerful poem for National Poetry Day.


E la Sua Volontade è nostra pace. - Dante
Sol con questi pensier, con altre chiome. - Petrarca

Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever there
Dwelt beauty in so poor a face as this;
Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss?
I will not bind fresh roses in my hair,
To shame a cheek at best but little fair,--
Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn,--
I will not seek for blossoms anywhere,
Except such common flowers as blow with corn.
Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain?
The longing of a heart pent up forlorn,
A silent heart whose silence loves and longs;
The silence of a heart which sang its songs
While youth and beauty made a summer morn,
Silence of love that cannot sing again.


I've left this almost to the last of the 'Monna Innominata', not because it's the final sonnet in the sequence (though it is) but because it cuts a little close to the bone for me. But it's a good poem, if a little excessively... something; and the quotation from Dante means "And His will is our peace".

A Better Resurrection

I have no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears.
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is in the falling leaf:
O Jesus, quicken me.

My life is like a faded leaf,
My harvest dwindled to a husk:
Truly my life is void and brief
And tedious in the barren dusk;
My life is like a frozen thing,
No bud nor greenness can I see:
Yet rise it shall--the sap of spring;
O Jesus, rise in me.

My life is like a broken bowl,
A broken bowl that cannot hold
One drop of water for my soul
Or cordial in the searching cold;
Cast in the fire the perished thing;
Melt and remould it, till it be
A royal cup for Him, my King:
O Jesus, drink of me.

My heart's a coward though my words are brave

Qui primavera sempre ed ogni frutto. - Dante
Ragionando con meco ed io con lui. - Petrarca

"Love me, for I love you" - and answer me,
"Love me, for I love you" - so shall we stand
As happy equals in the flowering land
Of love, that knows not a dividing sea.
Love builds the house on rock and not on sand,
Love laughs what while the winds rave desperately;
And who hath found love's citadel unmann'd?
And who hath held in bonds love's liberty?
My heart's a coward though my words are brave
We meet so seldom, yet we surely part
So often; there's a problem for your art!
Still I find comfort in his Book, who saith,
Though jealousy be cruel as the grave,
And death be strong, yet love is strong as death.

Searching my heart for all that touches you,/ I find there only love and love's goodwill

E drizzeremo gli occhi al Primo Amore. - Dante
Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia. - Petrarca

If I could trust mine own self with your fate,
Shall I not rather trust it in God's hand?
Without Whose Will one lily doth not stand,
Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date;
Who numbereth the innumerable sand,
Who weighs the wind and water with a weight,
To Whom the world is neither small nor great,
Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we plann'd.
Searching my heart for all that touches you,
I find there only love and love's goodwill
Helpless to help and impotent to do,
Of understanding dull, of sight most dim;
And therefore I commend you back to Him
Whose love your love's capacity can fill.

I dream of you to wake

O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto! - Dante
Immaginata guida la conduce. - Petrarca

I dream of you to wake: would that I might
Dream of you and not wake but slumber on;
Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone,
As summer ended summer birds take flight.
In happy dreams I hold you full in sight,
I blush again who waking look so wan;
Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone,
In happy dreams your smile makes day of night.
Thus only in a dream we are at one,
Thus only in a dream we give and take
The faith that maketh rich who take or give;
If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake,
To die were surely sweeter than to live,
Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.

When life was sweet because you call'd them sweet

Lo dì che han detto a' dolci amici addio. - Dante
Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci! - Petrarca

Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:--
Or come not yet, for it is over then,
And long it is before you come again,
So far between my pleasures are and few.
While, when you come not, what I do I do
Thinking "Now when he comes," my sweetest "when":
For one man is my world of all the men
This wide world holds; O love, my world is you.
Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang
Because the pang of parting comes so soon;
My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moon
Between the heavenly days on which we meet:
Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang
When life was sweet because you call'd them sweet?


Ironically, the person whose absence is, as you may have guessed, prompting this thinly-disguised rash of posts about lost love and hopeless parting never, in fact, called my songs sweet, but quite the opposite, on several occasions; and vice versa, too. But this is a nice poem all the same.

And you companion'd, I am not alone.

Amor, che ne la mente mi ragiona. - Dante
Amor vien nel bel viso di costei. - Petrarca

If there be any one can take my place
And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve,
Think not that I can grudge it, but believe
I do commend you to that nobler grace,
That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face;
Yea, since your riches make me rich, conceive
I too am crown'd, while bridal crowns I weave,
And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace.
For if I did not love you, it might be
That I should grudge you some one dear delight;
But since the heart is yours that was mine own,
Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right,
Your honourable freedom makes me free,
And you companion'd I am not alone.

I feel your honour'd excellence, and see / myself unworthy of the happier call

So I guess I'm just going to end up posting every single poem from Monna Innominata, one by one and in random order.


O dignitosa coscienza e netta! - Dante
Spirto più acceso di virtuti ardenti. - Petrarca

Thinking of you, and all that was, and all
That might have been and now can never be,
I feel your honour'd excellence, and see
Myself unworthy of the happier call:
For woe is me who walk so apt to fall,
So apt to shrink afraid, so apt to flee,
Apt to lie down and die (ah, woe is me!)
Faithless and hopeless turning to the wall.
And yet not hopeless quite nor faithless quite,
Because not loveless; love may toil all night,
But take at morning; wrestle till the break
Of day, but then wield power with God and man:--
So take I heart of grace as best I can,
Ready to spend and be spent for your sake.

I wish I could remember that first day

Christina Rossetti, from Monna Innominata. "Did one but know", indeed!

Era già l'ora che volge il desio. - Dante
Ricorro al tempo ch' io vi vidi prima. - Petrarca

I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it, such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seem'd to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand - Did one but know!

O my heart's heart

I just love this poem, which is from Christina Rossetti's 'Monna Innominata'. Maybe the best Christian love poem ever written? I can't think of a better.


Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona. - Dante
Amor m'addusse in sì gioiosa spene. - Petrarca

O my heart's heart, and you who are to me
More than myself myself, God be with you,
Keep you in strong obedience leal and true
To Him whose noble service setteth free,
Give you all good we see or can foresee,
Make your joys many and your sorrows few,
Bless you in what you bear and what you do,
Yea, perfect you as He would have you be.
So much for you; but what for me, dear friend?
To love you without stint and all I can
Today, tomorrow, world without an end;
To love you much and yet to love you more,
As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore;
Since woman is the helpmeet made for man.

Three Thoughts: On Loving and Loving God More

I.

Richard Lovelace (1649):

Tell me not (Sweet) I am unkinde,
That from the Nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet minde,
To Warre and Armes I flie.

True; a new Mistresse now I serve,
The first Foe in the Field;
And with a sterner Faith embrace
A Sword, a Horse, a Shield.

Yet this Inconstancy is such,
As thou too shalt adore;
I could not love thee (Deare) so much,
Lov'd I not Honour more.

And C. S. Lewis on this poem, from The Four Loves (1960):

There are women to whom the plea would be meaningless. Honour would be just one of those silly things that Men talk about; a verbal excuse for, therefore an aggravation of, the offence against "love's law" which the poet is about to commit. Lovelace can use it with confidence because his lady is a Cavalier lady who already admits, as he does, the claims of Honour. He does not need to "hate" her, to set his face against her, because he and she acknowledge the same law. They have agreed and understood each other on this matter long before. The task of converting her to a belief in Honour is not now, now, when the decision is upon them to be undertaken. It is this prior agreement which is so necessary when a far greater claim than that of Honour is at stake. It is too late, when the crisis comes, to begin telling a wife or husband or mother or friend, that your love all along had a secret reservation - "under God" or "so far as a higher Love permits". They ought to have been warned; not, to be sure, explicitly, but by the implication of a thousand talks, by the principle revealed in a hundred decisions upon small matters. Indeed, a real disagreement on this issue should make itself felt early enough to prevent a marriage or a Friendship from existing at all. The best love of either sort is not blind. Oliver Elton, speaking of Carlyle and Mill, said that they differed about justice, and that such a difference was naturally fatal "to any friendship worthy of the name". If "All" - quite seriously all - "for love" is implicit in the Beloved's attitude, his or her love is not worth having. It is not related in the right way to Love Himself.

II

Thomas Traherne (c.1636-1674):

Suppose a curious and fair woman. Some have seen the beauties of Heaven in such a person. It is a vain thing to say they loved too much. I dare say there are ten thousand beauties in that creature which they have not seen: they loved it not too much, but upon false causes. Nor so much upon false ones, as only upon some little ones. They love a creature for sparkling eyes and curled hair, lily breasts and ruddy cheeks which they should love moreover for being God's Image, Queen of the Universe, beloved by Angels, redeemed by Jesus Christ, an heiress of Heaven, and temple of the Holy Ghost: a mine and fountain of all virtues, a treasury of graces, and a child of God. But these excellencies are unknown. They love her perhaps, but do not love God more: nor men as much: nor Heaven and Earth at all. And so, being defective to other things, perish by a seeming excess to that.

We should be all Life and Mettle and Vigour and Love to everything; and that would poise us. I dare confidently say that every person in the whole world ought to be beloved as much as this: And she, if there be any cause of difference, more than she is. But God being beloved infinitely more, will be infinitely more our joy, and our heart will be more with Him, so that no man can be in danger by loving others too much, that loveth God as he ought.

Centuries of Meditations, 2:68.


III.

A sonnet from Christina Rossetti's sequence 'Monna Innominata' (1881):

Or puoi la quantitate
Comprender de l'amor che a te mi scalda. - Dante
Non vo' che da tal nodo mi scioglia. - Petrarca

Trust me, I have not earn'd your dear rebuke,
I love, as you would have me, God the most;
Would lose not Him, but you, must one be lost,
Nor with Lot's wife cast back a faithless look
Unready to forego what I forsook;
This say I, having counted up the cost,
This, though I be the feeblest of God's host,
The sorriest sheep Christ shepherds with His crook.
Yet while I love my God the most, I deem
That I can never love you overmuch;
I love Him more, so let me love you too;
Yea, as I apprehend it, love is such
I cannot love you if I love not Him,
I cannot love Him if I love not you.