love poem

The fountains serenade the flowers;
Upon their silver lute—
And, nestled in their leafy bowers,
The forest-birds are mute:
The bright and glittering hosts above
Unbar their golden gates,
While Nature holds her court of love,
And for her client waits.
Then, lady, wake—in beauty rise!
'T is now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
To light thee to thy bower.

The day we dedicate to care—
To love the witching night;
For all that's beautiful and fair
In hours like these unite.

Love oped a vista rare with stars
That overshone a dewy height;
Glad-Heart enwrapt in dreams, saw naught
Save radiance and bloom and light.

The fairest dove sang in the boughs
The sweetest songs that e'er were heard;
Glad-Heart strayed reckless down the glades,
Lured strangely by the cooing bird.

Yes! strangely lured, till suddenly
The dove did moan and wail, and lo!
The stars went out in darkness: all
Was bitterness and gloom and woe.

Ah! haste, Glad-Heart, go back, go back!
The vistas are not bloomy now;

O Rama, thy nature to thy servant is loving kindness.
Of cast and clan, of family or name he recks not—nor whether he be king or beggar.
Brahma and his train, and Siva, what is their caste, O Lord? I know not in my ignorance.
Where there are lords many, there the Lord is not—why then put faith in gods?
The tongue is but one, Rama's praises numberless—how then can I recount them?
O Sur Das, all glory is the Lord's: Vedas and Puranas bear witness.

He said he would come at moonrise;
The moon is out, but he has not come.
Perhaps he lives among high hills
Where the moon comes up late.

So tall she is, and slender, and so fair,
So like a child for play, a queen for grace,
So pale and proud she is, with that bright hair
Blown in a storm of gold about her face;
So gay she is, and with such pretty words,
So like a thrush for making a sweet note,
And then her hands, like little anxious birds—
My heart to watch her trembles in my throat.
So that I am all wonder to behold her,
I being I, she being what she is,
And dare in reverence alone to fold her,
And touch her cheek and forehead with a kiss;

I laughed, and you echoed my laughter,
I wept, and you mirrored my tears,
But when life is over, and after
The tender enchantment of years,
Is there aught in high Heaven to discover
That our intimate joy may transcend,
For I found in the heart of a lover
The faith of a friend!

It may be the part that was spirit,
God lent as a shield for our fight,
And we who were worthy to bear it
Shall lift it aloft in our flight
To the ultimate regions of ether,
Where Faith holds the key to the throne,

Music's meaning first is known,
Though the bird sing all day long,
When the last faint-falling tone
Divides the silence from the song.

Not in absence, nor when face
To face, thy love means most to me,
But in the narrow parting-space,
The cadence of felicity.

What ! no more favours? Not a ribband more,
Not fan nor muff to hold as heretofore?
Must all the little blisses then be left,
And what was once love's gift become our theft?
May we not look ourselves into a trance,
Teach our souls parley at our eyes, not glance,
Not touch the hand, not by soft wringing there
Whisper a love that only yes can hear?
Not free a sigh, a sigh that's there for you?
Dear, must I love you, and not love you too?
Be wise, nice, fair; for sooner shall they trace
The feather'd choristers from place to place,

Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoy
The purchase of those tears, the world's disdain,
Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy,
Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain?
Have ye no springtide, and no burst of May
In flowers and leafy trees, when solemn night
Pants with love-music, and the holy day
Breaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light?

What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thought
Of us, or in new excellence divine
Is old forgot? or do ye count for nought

I LIVE on hope and that I think do all
Who come into this world, and since I see
Myself in swim with such good company,
I take my comfort whatsoe'er befall.
I abide and abide, as if more stout and tall
My spirit would grow by waiting like a tree;
And, clear of others' toil, it pleaseth me
In dreams their quick ambition to forestall.

And if thro' careless eagerness I slide
To some accomplishment, I give my voice
Still to desire, and in desire abide.
I have no stake abroad; if I rejoice
In what is done or doing, I confide