love poem

Jesus calls us! O'er the tumult
Of our life's wild restless sea
Day by day his sweet voice soundeth,
Saying, ‘Christian, follow me’:

As of old Saint Andrew heard it
By the Galilean lake,
Turned from home, and toil, and kindred,
Leaving all for his dear sake.

Jesus calls us from the worship
Of the vain world's golden stores
From each idol that would keep us,
Saying, ‘Christian, love me more.’

In our joys and in our sorrows,
Days of toil and hours of ease,
Still he calls, in cares and pleasures,

Why each is striving, from of old,
To love more deeply than he can?
Still would be true, yet still grows cold?
—Ask of the Powers that sport with man!

They yok'd in him, for endless strife,
A heart of ice, a soul of fire;
And hurl'd him on the Field of Life,
An aimless unallay'd Desire.

YOU butterfly!
You singing bird!
You dainty sweet
Sweet woman with the dancing feet!
At sight of you, I know not why,
Strange wistful memories are stirred
In my soul's depths, when you flash by.
I love you at each swift heart beat,
Yet sit and never say a word,
So many thoughts thrill thus unheard.

O! little throat,
So slim and white!
Dear voice as deep
Restful and wonderful as sleep…
Our whole souls ache at each full note,
Fall faint with rapture, swoon to flight

“Oh brew me a potion strong and good!
One golden drop in his wine
Shall charm his sense and fire his blood,
And bend his will to mine.”

Poor child of passion! ask of me
Elixir of death or sleep,
Or Lethe's stream; but love is free,
And woman must wait and weep.

Stars over snow,
And in the west a planet
Swinging low below a star——
Look for a lovely thing and you will find it,
It is not far——
It will never be far.

The man who feels not, more or less, somewhat
Of love in all the years his life goes round
Should be denied a grave in holy ground
Except with usurers who will bate no groat;
Nor he himself should count himself a jot
Less wretched than the meanest beggar found.
Also the man who in Love's robe is gown'd
May say that Fortune smiles upon his lot.
Seeing how love has such nobility
That if it entered in the lord of Hell
'Twould rule him more than his fire's ancient sting;
He should be glorified to eternity,

Fill me with the rosy wine,
Call a toast—a toast divine;
Give the Poet's darling flame,
Lovely Jessy be the name;
Then thou mayest freely boast,
Thou hast given a peerless toast.

Love in many forms: threads for wishes begin in white

Because Thy Love hath sought me,
All mine is Thine and Thine is mine:
Because Thy Blood hath bought me,
I will not be mine own but Thine.

I lift my heart to Thy Heart,
Thy Heart sole resting-place for mine:
Shall Thy Heart crave for my heart,
And shall not mine crave back for Thine?

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!

Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!