love poems for her

All my thougts always speak to me of Love,
Yet have between themselves such difference
That while one bids me bow with mind and sense,
A second saith, "Go to: look thou above";
The third one, hoping, yields me joy enough;
And with the last come tears, I scarce know whence:
All of them craving pity in sore suspense,
Trembling with fears that the heart knoweth of.
And thus, being all unsure which path to take,
Wishing to speak I know not what to say,
And lose myself in amorous wanderings:

I will be faithful to thee; aye, I will!
And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye
That he did not discern and domicil
One his by right ever since that last Good-bye!

I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime
Of manhood who deal gently with me here;
Amid the happy people of my time
Who work their love's fulfilment, I appear

Numb as a vane that cankers on its point,
True to the wind that kissed ere canker came;
Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint
The mind from memory, making Life all aim,

This love puts all humanity from me;
I can but maledict her, pray her dead,
For giving love and getting love of thee--
Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed!

How much I love I know not, life not known,
Save as some unit I would add love by;
But this I know, my being is but thine own--
Fused from its separateness by ecstasy.

And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her
Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes;
Canst thou then hate me as an envier
Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize?

1

When you shall see me in the toils of Time,
 My lauded beauties carried off from me,
My eyes no longer stars as in their prime,
 My name forgot of maiden fair and free;
When, in your being, heart concedes to mind,
 And judgement, though you scarce its process know,
Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined,
 And you are irked that they have withered so:
Remembering mine the loss is, not the blame,
 That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill,
Knowing me in my soul the very same –

At break of dawn
he takes a street-car, happy
after a night of love.

Happy,
but sleepily wondering
how many away is the night

when an ecto-endomorph
cock-sucker must put on
The Widow's Cap.

A fine view has no particular master.

Mountains belong to those who love mountains.

Was it hundreds of years ago, my love,
Was it thousands of miles away,
That two poor creatures we know, my love,
Were toiling day by day;
Were toiling weary, weary,
With many myriads more,
In a city dark and dreary
On a sullen river's shore?

Was it truly a fact or a dream, my love?
I think my brain still reels,
And my ears still throbbing seem, my love,
With the rush and the clang of wheels;
Of a vast machinery roaring
For ever in skyless gloom;
Where the poor slaves peace imploring,

The time I went to see my Sister
Whom I loved unendurably,
The winter-night's
River-wind was so cold that
The sanderlings were crying.

My Mistres seemes but browne (say you) to mee.
Tis verie true, and I confesse the same:
Yet love I her, although that browne she bee,
Because to please me she is glad and faine.
I loved one most Beautiful before,
Whom now (as Death) I deadly doo abhore,
Because to scorne my service her I found,
I gave her ore, and chose to mee this same:
Nor to be faithfull (thinke I) I am bound
To one in whom no kindnes doth remaine:
This is the cause, for Browne and Pittifull,
I left a faire, but yet a faithlesse Trull.

Love this faire Lasse (said Love) once unto mee,
I lov'd her; love her now (saith he) no more,
When thousand darts within my brest there bee,
And if I love her, he mee threatneth sore:
He saith himselfe is falne in love with her,
And that himselfe fore others hee'l prefer.
His sense is this, He in her beauteous eyes,
Hath found such Amours as nere like were seene:
But thinkes he this shall serve, in cunning wise
To make mee leave, he cousning me so cleene?
In spite of him Ile love, sith hart doth gree