love poem

Love is a green girl
Holding a rose
Alone in a garden
Where nobody goes.

Time is an old man
Everyone meets
On trolleys and ferries
And cobblestone streets.

CLXX

Hate whom ye list for I care not.
Love whom ye list and spare not.
Do what ye list and dread not.
Think what ye list and fear not.
For as for me I am not
But even as one that recketh not
Whether ye hate or hate not,
For in your love I dote not.
Wherefore I pray you forget not
But love whom ye list and spare not.

O GAIN that lurk'st ungained in all gain!
O love we just fall short of in all love!
O height that in all heights art still above!
O beauty that dost leave all beauty pain!
Thou unpossessed that mak'st possession vain,
See these strained arms which fright the simple air,
And say what ultimate fairness holds thee, Fair!
They girdle Heaven, and girdle Heaven in vain;
They shut, and lo! but shut in their unrest.
Thereat a voice in me that voiceless was: —
" Whom seekest thou through the unmarged arcane,

I LOVE the sunshine everywhere,
In wood, and field, and glen;
I love it in the busy haunts
Of town-imprisoned men.

I love it when it streameth in
The humble cottage door
And casts the checkered casement shade
Upon the red-brick floor.

I love it where the children lie
Deep in the clovery grass,
To watch among the twining roots
The gold-green beetles pass.

I love it on the breezy sea,
To glance on sail and oar,
While the great waves, like molten glass,
Come leaping to the shore.

TO MY MOTHER .

Mother , Mother, how I loved thee!
And I know thou lov'dst me well;
But the gentle Saviour called thee
Home on high with saints to dwell.

Mother, gentlest of all creatures,
Patient, noble, just serene;
To me thou wert perfect, ideal;
Equal of thine, ne'er was seen.

Thou art gone! but not forgot by
Her who loved thee here on earth,

PROLOGUE

Women like us (passing for men), you'll cry,
Presume too much upon your secrecy.
There's not a fop in town but will pretend
To know the cheat himself, or by his friend.
Then make no words on 't, gallants, 'tis e'en true,
We are condemn'd to look, and strut, like you.
Since we thus freely our hard fate confess,
Accept us these bad times in any dress.
You'll find the sweet on 't, now old pantaloons
Will go as far as formerly new gowns;

In her young wedded daughter's brooding eyes,
Their troubled wonder and their grave surprise,
The mother read the news; and kissed her brow
With loving, tender lips she kissed, though now
Not merely as a child-embracing mother,
But as one woman welcoming another.

We've passed the station , the lovers said:
We thought this train stopped there.
We'll have to walk from the junction home.
Yet, why should the lovers care!

We'll have to walk six miles through the dark:
It's lucky the night is fair.
And they eyed each other with grave concern.
Yet, why should the lovers care!

O love, my love, what would I not give
To be walking now with you there
On the road you've taken alone through the dark! —
And why should the lovers care!

ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED SON AND ONLY CHILD .

M Y olive plant, so green and fair;
My budding hope, my dearest care;
My only one! He only knew
Who gave — and, ah! how soon withdrew
The precious gift — how dear I loved
My plant on earth; and though removed
To higher climes and brighter skies,
With mournful tread and weeping eyes
I wander round his early tomb —
But light from heaven dispels the gloom!
An angel voice falls on my ear,
" Whom seek'st thou, weeping mother, here?