love poem

Thou art my youth.—My youth lies far behind the mountains:
Unmeasured years of pain between me and the fountains
Of young life bar the way:
To-day's November sun seems softly to remind me
Of strong old summer suns that in the years behind me
Gilded green leaves on many a forest-spray.

But thou art youth. To love old age is but a liar.
He cannot dim love's flame, he cannot quench love's fire;
For all his strength, not he!
Old age thinks scorn of love, and deems love like a river

Jewels!—Can I not bring thee all the light
Of heaven's fair farthest stars for diadem?
Can I not give thee the dread soul of them
And clothe thee with the wild robes of the night?
Can I not win for thee in thickest fight
(Where giant spears and swords love's onset stem)
Gifts that a goddess-heart might not contemn,—
Gifts sweet to love's most penetrating sight?—

Can I not clothe thee, O thou woman fair,
With love for mantle, and with song for crown
Crown thee,—and bring thee, through life's stormiest air,

The long days stretch in front, and each will bring its greeting:—
The flowers and fronds of June—the August breeze,—
The green boughs o'er thine head in wild luxuriance meeting,—
The rippling waves of far-off summer seas,—
These all will greet thee.—I loved thee more than these!

I loved thee more than all the world's light host of lovers
Can love,—far more than fern or fragrant leas
Or fairies peeping through the rustling hazel-covers
Or gay-winged butterflies or restless bees.—
Ah! more than these I loved thee,—more than these!

If thou art true to me in spite of pain and danger,
What wilt thou gain, O love? The sweet divine sense, stranger
And stronger far than griet,
That thou hast saved a soul, and saved that soul for ever,
And added to my crown one flower that withers never,—
One deathless never-fading laurel-leaf.

This thou wilt gain:—A love that never words can measure;
My whole deep heart for mine of never-ceasing treasure
(If thou dost value this!)
This thou shalt gain:—The sense that when earth's loves are going

Why did I not know thee, instead of flowers and mountains?
Thy voice is sweeter far than voice of the old fountains:
Thou hast a tenderer charm
Than all the dreams of bliss Youth worshipped as he wandered
Along the flower-hung roads, and sang of love, and pondered.
White were the waves. But whiter is thine arm.

Why did I not know thee, instead of wooing sadness?
Why did I not woo thee, and, wooing thee, woo gladness
And infinite delight?
If I had only known that thou wast waiting—Known it!

The old sweet inland love was mighty of soul and seeming:—
Through valleys sweet with flowers its footstep lingered dreaming
And ever it laughed and sang.
But when the valleys all are trodden and moorland heather
Burns round about our path, and winds and waves together
Mingle their solemn chant, how large is love and love's last pang.

Far-off the valleys seem, and all the inland flowers;
Love's tender spring, and love's soft unforgotten bowers
Where the early words were said.
Upon the cliffs the last great fight is ever wagéd

Yes, there are other loves.—This world is full of flowers.
Because to-night is fair, are there no moonlit hours
In front? Because to-night
Gives thee thy love, are there no loves in other cities?
If thou hast sung, is thine the last of all love-ditties?
Not woman,—rather womanhood,—is white.

Ah! so a man might plead. And yet how hollow a fashion
Of thought and word it seems, when once real deep live passion
Has risen and set its seal
Upon the spirit!—How little I care for next year's roses

When at the last we stand beside the sea's grey water,
How passing sweet is then the earth's pale last flower-daughter
Who follows to the marge
Where yellow sand meets grey wild-crested waves far-gleaming;
Who once again sets heart and spirit and brain a-dreaming
Of old green forests lit by moonlight large.

No flowers are here to love, save this one blossom only
Which shines so strange and sweet upon the margin lonely
Where at the last we stand:
This blossom-spirit who brings the fair old earth's last message,

This is the rapture of love:—To plunge one's soul in honey,—
Yet not one drop to spill:
To pass from night to dawn,—from darkness to the sunny
Broad belt of light that circles gleaming mount and hill.

This is the glory of love: this is the true possession;
When the clear soul-eyes meet.
When the strong soul leaps forth, at last from Time's oppression
Freed,—and first tastes its triumph large and full and sweet.

For in the end the Soul is victor, and that only:
Though day press hard on day;

How could I help it?—Climbing out of hell,
Can one refuse to love the flower that grows
Close by the hell-brink? Is not the first rose
One sees in a green hedge adorable?—
So sweetness more than I can ever tell
Crowns thee, and round about thy being flows.
My love is measured by my former throes
Of pain: the light by darkness visible.

It is not much I ask. Pay love's old debt
With this, Lord God. I only ask to see
This woman's face: that it may shine on me
From time to time: that this star may not set:—