love poem

My love is like the lily flower
That blooms upon the lea:
I wadna gie ae blink o' her
For a' the maids I see.

Her voice is like the bonnie bird's,
That warbles 'mang the bow'rs,
Her breath is like the hawthorn when
It's wat wi' morning show'rs.

And frae the gowans o' the glen
She's caught her modest grace,
And a' the blushes o' the rose
Hae leapt into her face.

She bears aboot, I kenna hoo,
The joy o' simmer days,
The voice o' streams, and happy dreams
Amang the broomy braes.

I am true to my lord.
O my companions, there is nothing to be ashamed of now,
Since I have been seen dancing openly.

In the day I have no hunger.
I am always restless and sleep does not come in the night.
Leaving troubles behind, I shall go to the other side,
Because hidden knowledge has taken hold of me.

All my relations have come and surrounded me like bees.
But Mira is the servant of her beloved, the Mountain-holder.
And she cares not though the people mock her.

Her hazel eyes are deep
As the fathomless eyes of Sleep,—
Deep, deep—
And will no love declare,
And will no sorrow share,
Nor laugh, nor weep.
Warm tears may hide behind
The eyelids cold;
And treasure undivined,
For Love to find,
The depths may hold:
But daring souls who dive
Into the waters brown
To seek the secrets there,
Sink and drown,
Or else are chained alive
A thousand fathoms down.

Fate, with devoted and incessant care,
Has showered grotesqueness round us day by day.
If we turn grave, a hurdy-gurdy's air
Is sure to rasp across the words we say.
If we stand tense on brink of perilous choices,
'Tis never where Miltonic headlands loom,
But mid the sound of comic-opera voices
Or the cheap blaze of some hair-dresser's room.
Heaven knows what moonlit turrets, hazed in bliss,
Saw Launcelot and night and Guinevere!
I only know our first impassioned kiss
Was in your cellar, rummaging for beer. …

Love, that makes others speak and write,
Makes both my Tongue and Pen lie still;
Robs me of Speech and Fancy quite,
Whilst it with Cares my Brain does fill.
Thus I, by Love, for Love am made unfit,
And what shou'd give me Courage lessens it.

Struck Dumb, when I would most express,
Most modest, when I most should dare;
Most awkard is my dull Address,
When best I would my Flame declare:
Unhappy Bashfulness, that do'st betray
Thy Master's Passion, and his Bliss delay!

Yet since Respect bespeaks my Flame,

You shall have all my vanities:
The curl and colour of my hair,
The hundred happy coquetries,
The rose-hued gowns I love to wear.
Perhaps I shall not greatly care,
Or, caring, mourn them but a day;
But oh! this joy, this joy of mine—
May this not stay?

You shall take laughter's clearest note,
The very dancing from my feet,
The warmth and whiteness of my throat—
I shall not tremble when we meet
Save for this joy of mine, this sweet
Rose of delight I close away
Within my inmost heart. O Time,

No thyng ys to man so dere
As wommanys love in gode manère.
A gode womman is mannys blys,
There her love right and stedfast ys.
There ys no solas onder hevene
Of alle that a man may nevene
That shulde a man so moche glew
As a gode womman that loveth true.
Ne derer is none in Goddis hurde
Than a chaste womman with lovely worde.

Most men know love but as a part of life;
They hide it in some corner of the breast,
Even from themselves; and only when they rest
In the brief pauses of that daily strife,
Wherewith the world might else be not so rife,
They draw it forth (as one draws forth a toy
To soothe some ardent, kiss-exacting boy)
And hold it up to sister, child, or wife.
Ah me! why may not love and life be one?
Why walk we thus alone, when by our side,
Love, like a visible God, might be our guide?
How would the marts grow noble! and the street,

Between the stars, the light-waves on and on
Roll from the scenes of earth's past history
Unto the margins of eternity.
No day is lost of all that ever shone,
Each with its story into space hath gone
So that, to-night, some distant world may see,
Looking at earth, the Cross on Calvary,
Or the green plain and camps at Marathon
Dear heart, whose life is woven into mine,
Who art the light and music of my days,
We move towards death, yet let us have no fear;
If nothing dies, not even light's faintest rays,

I saw old Duchesses with their young Loves,
I, in a pair of very shabby gloves;
Even my shapeless garments could not make me sad,
For I remembered I was young as you, dear Lad.
That I am lovelier without my dress,
Gave me sweet wanton happiness.