love poem

Not of your voice, now still, that used to sing,
I think,—now all your spirit's house lies dead—
Not of your little, lovely, eager head:
I think more of your hands than anything.…
Not of your face, sweet like a star, now lying
Immobile, nor those lips, no more replying
With unexpectedness,—those eyes, whence came
An eager dancing life could never tame.…
Oh, no, it is those little, lovely hands
That bring down all my hopes like sliding sands,
Those little, lovely hands, all arts in one,
In which the soul of motion lies undone.…

“There's no such thing as love.” So said
A flippant sneerer whom I met one day;—
And yet a child sat at her feet and played,
And a sweet babe upon her bosom lay.

Greatly I wondered. “No such thing as love?
Then what are these?” Her thin lip curled.
“These? These are incidents. Your words but prove
Your ignorance. You do not know the world.

“You wonder why I wed?” Still curled her lip;
Still flushed her dark eye with a bitter scorn:—
“Why, I am a woman—so obey the whip
That swings it lash above all women born.

Friend of my later years, whose tender love
Has filled my home with blossoms, sweet though late,
Whose noble heart my spirit must approve,
As Duty's path thou tread'st with willing feet:
Thy welcome service, at Love's bidding mine,
As these my rhythmic waifs are gathered now,
Calls for a grateful tribute, and I twine
This simple wreath, dear N ELLIE , for thy brow.
Soul-sister! may the waiting years for thee
Pour out a largess of such holy joy
That earth shall seem the porch of heaven to be,

Love will ever find a way
To turn the darkest night to day:
Out of chaos and mischance,
And every wicked circumstance,
'Twill build itself a home again
Within the hearts of erring men;
But hell is made by its inhabitants

He loved and worshipped all that's fair,
In wondrous ocean, earth, and air;
The grand, the lovely, and the rare,
To him were sacred ever;
The thousand hues that summer brings,
The gorgeous glow that sunset flings—
The source whence every beauty springs—
Can art restore? Oh, never!

He loved the music of the bowers—
He loved the freshness of the showers—
He loved the odours of the flowers
With passion deep and holy;
All that the Poet's song hath stored—
All that the minstrel's strains afford,

Oh, I have found him who only gives rest,
Blessed Redeemer is he;
Fairer than angels, the brightest and best,
Blessed Redeemer is he;
Down from above he has come to my soul,
Healing and cleansing and making me whole,
Saying all burdens on him I may roll,
Blessed Redeemer is he.
Now ev'ry day he is saying to me,
Blessed Redeemer is he;
Trust me for all and from care be thou free,
Blessed Redeemer is he;
I have redeem'd thee and ne'er will forsake,
Strong to deliver when all is at stake,

JOSEPH , my husband, I pray you, come,
Throw down the adz and leave the little shop.
I have great news, something, my love, I dreamed
Or else I saw it. Here where the step is smooth
Worn with the faithful passing of your feet,
Let us sit down, for I have news to tell.

Such news, my lover, oh, such good, good news.
Look at me, Joseph, read it in my eyes.
Surely you see it; nay, but you're a man,
And men are slower—See, you know, you know.

Is it not strange that love can be so still?

I SEEK no more to bridge the gulf that lies
Betwixt our separate ways;
For vainly my heart prays,
Hope droops her head and dies;
I see the sad, tired answer in your eyes.

I did not heed, and yet the stars were clear;
Dreaming that love could mate
Lives grown so separate;
But at the best, my dear,
I see we should not have been very near.

I knew the end before the end was nigh:
The stars have grown so plain;
Vainly I sigh, in vain
For things that come to some,
But unto you and me will never come.

Thou, with thy looks, on whom I look full oft,
And find therein great cause of deep delight,
Thy face is fair, thy skin is smooth and soft,
Thy lips are sweet, thine eyes are clear and bright,
And every part seems pleasant in my sight;
Yet wote thou well, those looks have wrought my woe,
Because I love to look upon them so.

For first those looks allured mine eye to look,
And straight mine eye stirred up my heart to love;
And cruel love, with deep deceitful hook,
Choked up my mind, whom fancy cannot move,

She was a maid of high degree,
And quite severely proper.
Each man she met, so proud was she,
Would love, despair, then drop her.

But there remained without demur,
When all the rest forsook her,
An amateur photographer,
And finally he took her.