love poem

When love is dead, draw thou the lattice close,
Shut out the world with all its blare and din;
Rain down the petals of the faded rose,
Lest pity enter in.

When love is dead, weave thou a checkered pall
Of broken promises and faith unkept,
And in the twilight when the soft dews fall,
Thy heart shall know Love wept.

The bee shall drown his homely, humming note
Upon thine ear, until thy day shall pass;
The woodbird shall reproach thee from the moat,
And things that throng the grass.

A LOVE POEM .

The scorn of the nations is bitter,
But the touch of a hand is warm.

Is it not pleasant to wander
In town on Saturday night,
While people go hither and thither,
And shops shed cheerful light?
And, arm in arm, while our shadows
Chase us along the panes,
Are we not quite as cozy
As down among country lanes?

Nobody knows us, heeds us,
Nobody hears or sees,
And the shop-lights gleam more gladly
Than the moon on hedges and trees;
And people coming and going,

This is the place, as husht and dead
As when I saw it long ago;
Down the dark walk with shadows spread
I wander slow.

The tangled sunlight, cold and clear,
Steals frost-white through the boughs around.
There is no warmth of summer here,
No summer sound.
Darnet and nettle, as I pass,
Choke the dim ways, and in the bowers
Gather the weeds and the wild grass
Instead of flowers.

O life! O time! O days that die!
O days that live within the mind!
Here did we wander, she and I,
Together twined.

" Thank you — much obliged, old boy.
Yes, it's so; report says true.
I'm engaged to Nell Latine —
What else could a fellow do?

Governor was getting fierce;
Asked me, with paternal frown,
When I meant to go to work,
Take a wife, and settle down.
Stormed at my extravagance,
Talked of cutting off supplies —
Fairly bullied me, you know —
Sort of thing that I despise.

An autumn sky, a pleasant weather,
The asters blossom by the way;
We two between them walk together,
And watch the ships pass on the bay.

His summer song yet to the clover,
The hovered bee still murmurs there,
But there's that tells that summer's over
In this sweet dreamy autumn air.

When it was May and lovely weather,
And ships went sailing to the west,
We walked this path, we two together,
With happy throbs of heart and breast.

The spring was young and hope was growing,
And love went idling on the sand,

The lovely May has come at last,
With songs and gleaming dews,
And apple blossoms bursting out
With evanescent hues.

A newer life, a newer charm
Is bursting every hour,
With pledge and faithful promises,
From leaf and bud and flower.

And hope is growing on the hill,
And blooming in the vale,
And comes new vigor and new life
On every passing gale.

But O my heart! my heart of hearts,
What hope is there for me,
For what was hope and what was joy,
For me have ceased to be.

Cease, anxious World, your fruitless pain
To grasp forbidden store;
Your studied labors shall prove vain,
Your alchemy unblest,
Whilst seeds of far more precious ore
Are ripened in my breast.

My breast, the forge of happier love,
Where my Lucinda lives;
And the rich stock does so improve
As she her art employs,
That every smile and touch she gives
Turns all to golden joys.

Since then we can such treasures raise,
Let's no expense refuse;
In love let's lay out all our days —

Tell me no more you love; in vain,
Fair Celia, you this passion feign.
Can those pretend to love that do
Refuse what Love persuades us to?
Who once has felt his active flame,
Dull laws of Honor does disdain.
You would be thought his slave, and yet
You will not to his power submit.
More cruel then those beauties are
Whose coyness wounds us with despair:
For all the kindness which you show,
Each smile and kiss which you bestow,
Are like those cordials which we give
To dying men, to make them live,

To little or no purpose I spent many days,
In ranging the Park, the Exchange, and the Plays;
For ne'er in my rambles till now did I prove
So lucky to meet with the man I could love.
Oh! how I am pleased when I think on this man,
That I find I must love, let me do what I can!

How long I shall love him, I can no more tell,
Than had I a fever when I should be well.
My passion shall kill me before I will show it,
And yet I would give all the world he did know it;
But oh how I sigh when I think should he woo me,

I saw her roll by in her carriage,
Lolling there in luxurious pride;
She has grown very fine since her marriage,
Though her husband, just then glancing up, he
Didn't seem at all pleased with his bride.

In fact, he looked angry and jealous;
She was fondling a pug at her chin,
With kisses, affectionate, zealous —
Bah! a woman so fond of a puppy
Is ugly, though charming as sin!

Just then I espied on the crossing
A poorly dressed woman and plain,
Caressingly dandling and tossing,