In a gushy mood...
Venetian Air by Thomas Moore
Row gently here, my gondolier; so softly wake the tide,
That not an ear on earth may hear, but hers to whom we glide.
Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well as starry eyes to see,
Oh! think what tales 'twould have to tell of wandering youths like me!
Now rest thee here, my gondolier; hush, hush, for up I go,
To climb yon light balcony's height, while thou keep'st watch below.
Ah! did we take for Heaven above but half such pains as we
Take day and night for woman's love, what angels we should be.
Don't you love that? I miss Venice :(.
Shakespeare is always good too:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds
or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no! It is an ever fixéd mark, that looks on tempests, and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
Then I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
*sigh*
how positively lovely.
Row gently here, my gondolier; so softly wake the tide,
That not an ear on earth may hear, but hers to whom we glide.
Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well as starry eyes to see,
Oh! think what tales 'twould have to tell of wandering youths like me!
Now rest thee here, my gondolier; hush, hush, for up I go,
To climb yon light balcony's height, while thou keep'st watch below.
Ah! did we take for Heaven above but half such pains as we
Take day and night for woman's love, what angels we should be.
Don't you love that? I miss Venice :(.
Shakespeare is always good too:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.
Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds
or bends with the remover to remove.
O, no! It is an ever fixéd mark, that looks on tempests, and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me proved,
Then I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
*sigh*
how positively lovely.