love poem

The minstrel of the classic lay
Of love and wine who sings
Still found the fingers run astray
That touched the rebel strings.

Of Cadmus he would fain have sung,
Of Atreus and his line;
But all the jocund echoes rung
With songs of love and wine.

Ah, brothers! I would fain have caught
Some fresher fancy's gleam;
My truant accents find, unsought,
The old familiar theme.

Love, Love! but not the sportive child
With shaft and twanging bow,
Whose random arrows drove us wild
Some threescore years ago;

In the meadow—what in the meadow?
Bluebells, buttercups, meadowsweet,
And fairy rings for the children's feet
In the meadow.

In the garden—what in the garden?
Jacob's-ladder and Solomon's-seal,
And Love-lies-bleeding beside All-heal
In the garden.

Where love is, there comes sorrow
Today or else tomorrow:
Endure the mood,
Love only means our good.

Where love is, there comes pleasure
With or withouten measure,
Early or late
Cheering the sorriest state.

Where love is, all perfection
Is stored for heart's delection;
For where love is
Dwells every sort of bliss.

Who would not choose a sorrow
Love's self will cheer tomorrow?
One day of sorrow,
Then such a long tomorrow!

God made the earth exceeding good.
He clothed the hill, or clothed the wood,
In verdurous raiment fresh and fair.
He filled the earth with living things:
With flashing of innumerous wings
He filled the sunlit heights of air.

He filled the hollow sea with life.
Strange sea-flowers in the far depths thrive,
And wondrous fishes, scarlet-scaled,
Dart like small flying suns along;
And where the eager tides wax strong
Rushes the salmon, silver-mailed.

God made the day, and made the night.

Thy life has not been wasted. Thou hast taught
Truths beyond thought,
Sweet sacred truths beyond my dream, to me.
Truths not one other woman could have told
Thy lips unfold.
Blind was I. Thou hast taught my soul to see.
For this I owe
Thanks infinite. For this I love thee so,
That thou hast shown me woman's heart indeed,—
So fair and sweet,
So far beyond a poet's dreams of it,
So far above man's common thoughtless creed.

Ah! never think thy life is wasted, dear.
It blossoms here;

Neither joy nor sorrow move
The figure at the feet of Love;
Light of breathing life is she,
Spirit of immortality.

Lead me up thy stony stair,
O Spirit, into thy great air!
For his day of pain and tears
Is to man a thousand years.

Herald of blissful summertide come I;
I wander by,
Singing of sweetest things the June day knows,—
Love and the rose.

If, o East wind, o'er the Ares' Plain to pass to thee befall,
Kiss that valley's earth and musky Look thou make thy breath withal.

Selma's stead (to whom an hundred Greetings be each breath from us)
Full thou'lt find of bells a-clamour and of camel-drivers' bawl.

Kiss for me the Loved One's litter And thus humbly to her say,
“For thy sev'rance I consumed am; Come, o dear one, to my call!”

I, who styled the warners' counsel Erst the chirp of the rebeck,
Now have proved enough of chast'ning From estrangement's heavy maul.

Morning's sun
shines through windows draped
in brocade sewn
with coins. Light
breezes move those pure
white silks.

An artful smile: a pair
of lush, curved, crimson
horns.
Lovely eyes: soft
moth-brows fall

Night so
long. Can't get
to sleep. Turn
on my side, and hear
the nightwatch drum.

No reason for it, love,
and yet we met:
it leaves a bitter taste
down in my guts.