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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - Love’s Likenings
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He. 
 To what, love, shall I liken thee?
 Thou, methinks, shalt firstly be
 A blue flower with nodding bells
 In the hollow of a tree.
 When the wind blows wantonly,
 Thou shalt ever shake thy head
 At the idle tale he tells.
 But at evening from the clover,
 When the world is all abed,
 And the noisy day is over,
 And the birds have gone to rest,
 In the darkness will I hover
 Till thou bid me come to thee,
 Till I creep into thy nest,
 I thy long--expected lover,
 I thy sweet, thy honey bee.
 To what, love, shall I liken thee?
 Tell me, love, what wouldst thou be?

She.
 I would be a white cloud lying
 In the bosom of the sky,
 And at noon, when Earth is sighing
 For the sun my fleeces hide,
 I would bask in his bright eye,
 Till he drew me up on high,
 Till be took me for his bride.
 Thou shalt be my sun to me.

 Love, but I would be a well
 In the sands of Araby,
 So thyself wert a gazelle
 Which must either drink or die.
 Bend above me, love, and lo!
 In my waters thou shalt spy
 All that my heart cares to show,
 Thy own face against the sky.

He. 
 To what more shall I liken thee?
 Thou, my love, shalt lastly be
 A clear silver--tonguèd brook
 Running downwards to the Sea,
 And the reeds shall seek to stay thee
 Under every shaded nook,
 And the pebbles shall waylay thee,
 With their bald heads to dismay thee,
 Till thy pretty face grows white,
 Half in anger, half in fright.
 See, thy troubles are forgot
 In the still pool suddenly,
 And a smile has found thee out,
 Taking shape of thy delight,
 Laughing, weeping, onward ever
 Till thou join thyself to me,
 For my love shall be the river.
 Thou and I shall run together
 Ever till we meet the Sea.
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