Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

J. Keats

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain…

J. Keats

J’ay desiré cent fois me transformer, et d’estre
Un espirit invisible, afin de me cacher
Au fond de vostre coeur, pour l’humeur rechercher
Qui vous fait contre moy si cruelle apparoistre.

Si j’estois dedans vous, au moins je serois maistre
De l’humeur qui vous fait contre l’Amour pecher,
Et si n’auriez ny pouls, ny nerfs dessous la chair,
Que je ne recherchasse à fin de vous cognoistre.

Je s¸aurois maugré vous et voz complexions,
Toutes voz volontez, et voz conditions,
Et chasserois si bien la froideur de voz veins,

Que les flames d’amour vous y allumeriez:
Puis quand je les voirrois de son feu toutes pleines,
Je me referois homme, et lors vous m’aimeriez

- Pierre de Ronsard

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

- J. K.

My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The 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 is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.