love poem

And art thou never tired of poems, and of singing?—
“Nay! not more tired than Spring of merry bright birds winging
Along the woods their way.
A woman never tires of love, so it be endless:
The summer, full of flowers, would feel forlorn and friendless
With one flower less on one acacia spray.

“A woman never tires of love, so it be tireless:
A woman never tires till passion's soul be fireless
And song's heart void of flame.
What, do my eyes not speak? Then must my lips make plainer
That Song is ever sweet, a gentle-eyed retainer

Yes: love me with thine eyes.—If thy soft lips are dreaming
Far other dreams than ours, yet through thine eyes are gleaming
The dreams my love-songs bring.
If summer's lips are sweet, yet summer's eyes are sweeter.
If summer's hands are swift, yet summer's eyes are fleeter.
In spring's sweet eyes resides the charm of spring.

If only in thine eyes I see thy sweet soul waking,
I am content; content though all my heart be breaking
For very love of thee.
It only content,—for then I know thy soul is listening.

Yet when I strive to cease, yea when I think of ending,
It is but as a man whose eyes stoop downward, bending
Towards river-banks made sweet
With peppermint and thyme and tall reeds bright and gracious;
Who says, “I am content: I need no more the spacious
High hills and mountains for my wandering feet.”—

It is but as a man who merely loving rivers
And willow green that waves and alder dark that quivers
O'er blue tides tenderly,
Thinking to sing of these in some fair inland prison,
Lifts sudden eyes of awe when lo! before his vision

Never will any man be stricken deep
By thy sweet arrow of beauty quite as I
When after weary passionless long sleep
I looked up suddenly,—and thou wast nigh!
No man will ever love thy wondrous face
Quite as I love it. Though a thousand may
Admire thy beauty and thy girlish grace.
Still true it is that I am not as they.
They gaze and they pass on. But I adore.
They think they love. I love till time doth grow
Weary of rose-hung hill and wave-white shore:
Yea, till the Alps wax weary of their snow.

When fair love's fragrant world first opens out before us,
When first its sweet winds sing and golden stars shine o'er us,
Its flowers are so divine
We never never think of what shall follow after:
We only hear the wind's caressing lovely laughter;
We see no white crests on the far sea-line.

Then when the dark days come, and all the flowers are faded,
And the green thickets, dense with leafage once, invaded
By the bleak keen wind's breath,
We have the golden thought of summer days to cling to,

The sea is very strong.—What is the power exceeding
In strength of deathless voice the storm-wind's passionate pleading
And mightier than the waves
As o'er the rocks they leap in thundering white-lipped millions
Or surge far out at sea by trillions and quadrillions
And chant death-choruses o'er countless graves?

What is the power that o'er the measureless sea-laughter
Triumphs, and scorns the scorn that shouts and follows after
Its fair triumphal feet?
Love: raising nigher to God the love-song of the willows

I, having loved thee as none other soul
Can love thee, stand before thy face to-day
And of thy womanhood this boon I pray;
That, as to thee I give myself heart-whole,
Committing self to Love's divine control,
So wilt thou give me—(thought too sweet to say!)—
Love that shall never change or pass away
But deepen onward towards a deathless goal.

Oh change not, if I change not! Let the springs
Of new fair flower and leaf that are to be
Find, ever, only strengthening love in me:

May Love be guardian over heart and heart,
Though none beside us stand!
May love be with us, when we are apart,
And keep hand locked in hand!

Though thee I see not, yet thine eyes I see:
They keep me true and strong.
Though me thou see'st not, let the message be
Still with thee of my song.

May love keep watch between us!—May his strength
Keep both our spirits true!
Till, storm and thunder past, we reach at length
The sky's eternal blue.

So many stars have shone, that all the stars are weary!
So many days have passed, that all the days are dreary!
So many flowers have bloomed
That nought is left of power within the earth to nourish
The spots where, gay of old, the green buds used to flourish:
Flowers, hearts and souls, are all alike entombed.

No more for me white hands shine at the summer casement
And beckon and allure, with dreams of sweet embracement:
No more swift glances gleam.
This arrow is the last. Though other arrows found me

I offer this to God,—and then to thee,—
Then to the world: that God and man may know
Love's sweetness and love's blessing and love's woe
As each in turn possessed and vanquished me.
Then, lastly, back I come—as from the sea
To some fair valley with gold flowers aglow:
Longing to find thee,—where blue waters flow,
And where the bird's song mixes with the bee.

Back from the ocean of God's heart, and back
From the wild tempest-wingéd tides of things,
I turn to thee, as towards some flowerlit track