love poem

Love for ever dwells in Heaven,
Hope entereth not there.
To despairing man Love's given,
Hope dwells not with despair.
Love reigneth high, and reigneth low, and reigneth everywhere.

In the inmost heart Love dwelleth,
It may not quenchèd be;
E'en when the life-blood welleth
Its fond effects we see.
In the name that leaves the lips the last, fades last from memory.

And when we shall awaken
Ascending to the sky,
Tho' Hope shall have forsaken,
Sweet Love shall never die.

Oh my love and my own own deary!
What shall I do? my love is weary.
Sleep, O friend, on soft downy pillow,
Pass, O friend, as wind or as billow,
And I'll wear the willow.

No stone at his head be set,
A swelling turf be his coverlet
Bound round with a graveyard wattle;
Hedged round from the trampling cattle
And the children's prattle.

I myself, instead of a stone,
Will sit by him to dwindle and moan;
Sit and weep with a bitter weeping,
Sit and weep where my love lies sleeping

If I have pained thee by a word,
If, May, when last we met,
A doubt shot through me, wild, absurd,
Forgive, forget.

Love is so scarce, truth is so rare,
So swift-winged is regret,
So keen the spear-points of despair—
Forgive, forget.

Believe me, if the quick tears sprang,
If thy soft eyes were wet
Almost, I also felt a pang:
Forgive, forget.

Be gracious, love, and for love's sake
Bear with me even yet.
The best of me discern and take;
The rest forget!

Love hath querulous grown and sad—
We should have parted yesterday;
A wistful lass and a tender lad—
Pity it was we chose to stay.

Over-long was the joy we had—
Why we wearied what man may say?
Love hath querulous grown and sad—
We should have parted yesterday.

O, to have said when hearts were glad,
“Kiss me and go,” as lovers may.
Now we sneer that the dream was mad.
Now we sneer that the dream was mad,
Yawn and wonder and turn away.
Love hath querulous grown and sad—

My love is like the snarl of haughty drums
And blare of trumpets, when a great one comes
Down some thronged breathless city thoroughfare:
And yours is like a song that fills the air
Of evening when the dew has made it sweet
And Peace walks through the dusk with quiet feet.

My love is like the visual shout of red
That threads the drowsing of a poppy bed
In summer, when the sun makes heavy heat:
And yours is like the white flower, cool and sweet,
That fills the shadow with a pleasant scent,

A Pleasing sadness thrills the pensive soul,
Each pulse attentive beats with motion slow;
Now quickly chang'd, conflicting passions roll,
And ev'ry nerve with new sensations glow.

“Now, Jaffier, now!” the lovely mourner cries,
“'Tis Belvidera courts the pointed steel;
Now, my best love, thy Belvidera dies,
Strike while thy bosom ev'ry fear conceal.”

Phrenzy recoils, and love holds sov'reign sway,
Affection hurls aside the erring dart;
And he that could his gen'rous friend betray,

Love in her eyes sits playing,
And sheds delicious death;
Love in her lips is straying,
And warbling in her breath;
Love on her breast sits panting,
And swells with soft desire;
Nor grace, nor charm, is wanting
To set the heart on fire.

I CANNOT tell what this love may be
That cometh to all, but not to me.
It cannot be kind as they'd imply,
Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?
It cannot be joy and rapture deep,
Or why do these gentle ladies weep?
It cannot be blissful as 'tis said,
Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?

Though everywhere true love I see
A-coming to all, but not to me,
I cannot tell what this love may be!
For I am blithe and I am gay,
While they sit sighing all night, all day.
Think of the gulf 'twixt them and me,

A magnet hung in a hardware shop,
And all around was a loving crop
Of scissors and needles, nails and knives,
Offering love for all their lives;
But for iron the magnet felt no whim,
Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him;
From needles and nails and knives he'd turn,
For he'd set his love on a Silver Churn!
His most aesthetic,
Very magnetic
Fancy took this turn—
“If I can wheedle
A knife or a needle,
Why not a Silver Churn?”

And Iron and Steel expressed surprise,

They called my love a poor blind maid:
I love her more for that, I said;
I love her, for she cannot see
These gray hairs which disfigure me.
We wonder not that wounds are made
By an unsheathed and naked blade;
The marvel is that swords should slay,
While yet within their sheaths they stay.
She is a garden fair, where I
Need fear no guardian's prying eye;
Where, though in beauty blooms the rose,
Narcissuses their eyelids close.