love poem

TWO youths from a village set out together
To seek their fortune the wide world through;
One cried, 'Hurra for the autumn weather!'
The other sighed, 'Winter is almost due!'
One failed, they said, for he never was thrifty,
Returned to the village, and laughed and loved.
The other succeeded, and when he was fifty
Had millions and fame, and the world approved.

But the failure was happy, his smile a blessing,
The dogs and the children romped at his feet,
While from him who succeeded, tho' much possessing,

How many hours in a day?
They number twenty four.
How many hours can one give love?
Well, lovers don't keep score.

A clock that tells the time of day
Can't measure gifts of love,
Not those expected here on earth,
Nor sent us from above.

The clock ticks on incessantly
When lovers are apart;
And time drags on relentlessly
With every beat of heart.

Yet, hearts beat so expectantly
When lovers plan to meet;
While clocks and watches stand aside,
With time in full retreat.

In spring when branches of woodbine
Hung leafless over the rocks,
And fleecy snow in the hollows
Lay in unshepherded flocks,

By the road where dead leaves rustled,
Or damply matted the ground,
While over me lifted the robin
His honey'd passion of sound,

I came upon trailing arbùtus
Blooming in modesty sweet,
And gathered store of its riches
Offered and spread at my feet.

It grew under leaves, as if seeking
No hint of itself to disclose,
And out of its pink-white petals

Tragedy in Colorado

There are 13 crosses and we're torn apart,
There are 13 crosses and blood flows from our heart.
There are 13 crosses and our souls are crying.
There are 13 crosses and white doves are flying,
They've taken these angels up to our God
To be protected and loved and to send peace from above.
To heal from this tragedy seems to much to bear
There are many souls to be healed and the whole world cares,
Can we love and forget and let love take it's place
Or will we let bitterness and hate line our face,

Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song

Oh! leave the past to buy its own dead.
The past is naught to us, the present all.
What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed?
What need of ghosts to grace a festival?
I would not, if I could, those days recall,
Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread.
The lamps are lit, and music plays withal.
Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid.
This island is our home. Around it roar
Great gulfs and oceans, channels, straits and seas.
What matter in what wreck we reached the shore,

I DID not choose thee, dearest. It was Love
That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind
As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove
His offering brings and cares not at what shrine
He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine;
The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand,
And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine,
And spoke the words I might not understand.
   I was unwise in all but the dear chance
Which was my fortune, and the blind desire
Which led my foolish steps to Love's abode,

Imagination cannot rise above thee;
Near and afar I see thee, and I love thee;
My misery away from me I thrust it,
For thy perfection I behold, and trust it.

I heard a cry in the night,
A thousand miles it came,
Sharp as a flash of light,
My name, my name!

It was your voice I heard,
You waked and loved me so--
I send you back this word,
I know, I know!

Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But since 'tis nature's law, in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and withering age submit,
With less regret those laurels I resign,
Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
With better grace an ancient chief may yield
The long contended honours of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,