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Best Famous Untiringly Poems

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Sonnet CLVII

SONNET CLVII.
 Una candida cerva sopra l' erba.
 THE VISION OF THE FAWN.
  Beneath a laurel, two fair streams between,At early sunrise of the opening year,A milk-white fawn upon the meadow green,Of gold its either horn, I saw appear;[Pg 173]So mild, yet so majestic, was its mien,I left, to follow, all my labours here,As miners after treasure, in the keenDesire of new, forget the old to fear."Let none impede"—so, round its fair neck, runThe words in diamond and topaz writ—"My lord to give me liberty sees fit."And now the sun his noontide height had wonWhen I, with weary though unsated view,Fell in the stream—and so my vision flew.
 Macgregor.  A form I saw with secret awe, nor ken I what it warns;Pure as the snow, a gentle doe it seem'd, with silver horns:Erect she stood, close by a wood, between two running streams;And brightly shone the morning sun upon that land of dreams!The pictured hind fancy design'd glowing with love and hope;Graceful she stepp'd, but distant kept, like the timid antelope;Playful, yet coy, with secret joy her image fill'd my soul;And o'er the sense soft influence of sweet oblivion stole.Gold I beheld and emerald on the collar that she wore;Words, too—but theirs were characters of legendary lore."Cæsar's decree hath made me free; and through his solemn charge,Untouch'd by men o'er hill and glen I wander here at large."The sun had now, with radiant brow, climb'd his meridian throne,Yet still mine eye untiringly gazed on that lovely one.A voice was heard—quick disappear'd my dream—the spell was broken.Then came distress: to the consciousness of life I had awoken.
 Father Prout.

Written by Emile Verhaeren |

The gift of yourself

The gift of yourself no longer satisfies you; you are prodigal of yourself: the rapture that bears you on to ever greater love springs up in you ceaselessly and untiringly, and carries you ever higher towards the wide heaven of perfect love.
A clasp of the hands, a gentle look impassions you; and your heart appears to me so suddenly lovely that I am afraid sometimes of your eyes and your lips, and that I am unworthy and that you love me too much.
Ah! these bright ardours of an affection too lofty for a poor human being who has only a poor heart, all moist with regrets, all thorny with faults, to feel their passing and dissolve in tears.