Love by Emily Dickinson

XXII
I GAVE myself to him

I GAVE myself to him,
And took himself for pay.
The solemn contract of a life
Was ratified this way.
The wealth might disappoint,
Myself a poorer prove
Than this great purchaser suspect,
The daily own of Love
Depreciate the vision;
But, till the merchant buy,
Still fable, in the isles of spice,
The subtle cargoes lie.
At least, ’t is mutual risk,—
Some found it mutual gain;
Sweet debt of Life,—each night to owe,
Insolvent, every noon.

Martha by Walter de la Mare

"Once...Once upon a time..."
Over and over again,
Martha would tell us her stories,
In the hazel glen.

Hers were those clear gray eyes
You watch, and the story seems
Told by their beautifulness
Tranquil as dreams.

She'd sit with her two slim hands
Clasped round her bended knees;
While we on our elbows lolled,
And stared at ease.

Her voice and her narrow chin,
Her grave small lovely head,
Seemed half the meaning
Of the words she said.

"Once...Once upon a time..."
Like a dream you dream in the night,
Fairies and gnomes stole out
In the leaf-green light.

And her beauty far away
Would fade, as her voice ran on,
Till hazel and summer sun
And all were gone:--

All fordone and forgot;
And like clouds in the height of the sky,
Our hearts stood still in the hush
Of an age gone by.

A Little Girl Lost by William Blake

A Little Girl Lost

Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time Love, sweet love, was thought a crime. In the age of gold, Free from winter's cold, Youth and maiden bright, To the holy light, Naked in the sunny beams delight. Once a youthful pair, Filled with softest care, Met in garden bright Where the holy light Had just removed the curtains of the night. Then, in rising day, On the grass they play; Parents were afar, Strangers came not near, And the maiden soon forgot her fear. Tired with kisses sweet, They agree to meet When the silent sleep Waves o'er heaven's deep, And the weary tired wanderers weep. To her father white Came the maiden bright; But his loving look, Like the holy book All her tender limbs with terror shook. 'Ona, pale and weak, To thy father speak! Oh the trembling fear! Oh the dismal care That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!'