love poem

It was the autumn of the year;
The strawberry-leaves were red and sere;
October's airs were fresh and chill,
When, pausing on the windy hill,
The hill that overlooks the sea,
You talked confidingly to me, —
Me whom your keen, artistic sight
Has not yet learned to read aright,
Since I have veiled my heart from you,
And loved you better than you knew.

You told me of your toilsome past;
The tardy honors won at last,
The trials borne, the conquests gained,
The longed-for boon of Fame attained;

It was pleasant and delightful on one midsummer's morn,
When the green fields and meadows they were covered in corn,
And the blackbirds and thrushes sang in every green tree,
And the larks they sang melodious at the dawning of the day.

As the sailor and his true love they walked out one day,
Said the sailor to his true love, "I am bound far away,
I am bound for the East Indies where the loud cannon roar,
And I'm going to leave my Nancy, she's the girl that I adore.'

Three heavy sighs she gave and said, "Jimmy my dear,

It was a still autumnal day —
So sadly still and strangely bright —
The hectic glow of quick decay
Tinged everything with lovely light.

It warmly touched the fragrant air
And fields of corn and crumbling vines
Along the golden Yadkin, where
We walked among the whispering pines

Alas, that tender hectic glow
Shone in her gentle, pallid face,
And none save God in heaven could know
My agony to see its trace —
To watch those fatal roses bloom
Upon her cheeks — red, cruel signs —

It singeth low in every heart,
We hear it each and all,--
A song of those who answer not,
However we may call;
They throng the silence of the breast,
We see them as of yore,--
The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet,
Who walk with us no more.

'Tis hard to take the burden up,
When these have laid it down;
They brightened all the joy of life,
They softened every frown;
But oh, 'tis good to think of them,
When we are troubled sore!
Thanks be to God that such have been,
Although they are no more!

It is my joy in life to find
At every turning of the road,
The strong arm of a comrade kind
To help me onward with my load.

And since I have no gold to give,
And love alone must make amends,
My only prayer is, while I live, —
God make me worthy of my friends!

It is Isis the mystery
Must be in love with me.

Here this round ball of earth
Where all the mountains sit
Solemn in groups,
And the bright rivers flit
Round them for girth.

Here the trees and troops
Darken the shining grass,
And many people pass
Plundered from heaven,
Many bright people pass,
Plunder from heaven.

What of the mistresses,
What the beloved seven?
— They were but witnesses,
I was just driven.

Where is there peace for me?
Isis the mystery

Is love, then, so simple, my dear?
The opening of a door,
And seeing all things clear?
I did not know before.

I had thought it unrest and desire
Soaring only to fall,
Annihilation and fire:
It is not so at all.

I feel no desperate will,
But I think I understand
Many things, as Isit quite still,
With Eternity in my hand.

IS IT a sin to love thee? Then my soul is deeply dyed,
For my lifeblood, as it gushes, takes its crimson from love's tide;
And I feel its waves roll o'er me and the blushes mount my brow
And my pulses quicken wildly, as the love dreams come and go:
I feel my spirit's weakness; I know my spirit's power;
I have felt my proud heart struggle in temptation's trying hour;
Yet, amid the din of conflict, bending o'er life's hallowed shrine,
Yielding all, my soul had murmured, I am thine, forever thine!

In your quest or request God is remote.
Yet He alone can be your anchor and your space,
the pulse and the parts,
the vine and the separation.

If God were a man, I would touch His robe
and burn into Him.
If He were a man, I would kiss His feet
and kneel or lie before Him.
I would cry, bleed, die ...
But He is not a man,
not a body.

You yourself are God because He made you,
classified you, gifted you and sailed within you.
You yourself are God because He sees you,
knows you, speaks to you,

In times like these, when widows, orphans weep,
When Gallia's helpless sons in exile roam,
Wide spreads the civil flame with threatening sweep,
And every Briton trembles for his home;
While fury kindles in plebeian minds,
With frenzy stung to gnaw and rend their chain,
While tyrant power that chain still faster binds,
Slow to concede and stubborn to retain;
In times like these, when fierce contentions rise,