love poems for her

Lightsome as convey'd by sparrows,
Love and Beauty cross'd the plains,
Flights of little pointed arrows
Love dispatch'd among the swains:
But so much our shepherds dread him,
(Spoiler of their peace profound)
Swift as scudding fawns they fled him,
Frighted, though they felt no wound.

Now the wanton God grown slyer,
And for each fond mischief ripe,
Comes disguis'd in Pan's attire,
Tuning sweet an oaten pipe:
Echo, by the winding river,
Doubles his delusive strains;
While the boy conceals his quiver,

I am lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,
Tho' I move within the gloom, love,
Breathe within the gloom!
Men deem life not fled, dear,
Deem my life not fled,
Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,
I with thee am dead,
O my little child!

What is the grey world, darling,
What is the grey world,
Where the worm lies curled, darling,
The death-worm lies curled?
They tell me of the spring, dear!
Do I want the spring?
Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,

I will not follow you, my bird,
I will not follow you.
I would not breathe a word, my bird,
To bring thee here anew.

I love the free in thee, my bird,
The lure of freedom drew;
The light you fly toward, my bird,
I fly with thee unto.

And there we yet will meet, my bird,
Though far I go from you
Where in the light outpoured, my bird,
Are love and freedom too.

Let the light flame consume them and be done
While their charred fragments in the embers lie,
The old, sweet record of the days gone by.
Read them and burn them, lingering, one by one;
The swift months gather and the seasons run
With none to tell us of the when or why;
Let them as ashes vanish in the sky,
Since this our courtship has but just begun.

Better to miss them when we parted be
Than through some fault or lapsing of the years,
To have them made a target for the sneers
Or jest, or scorn, of Curiosity;

Like a willow, like a reed
Is my Love's grace:
And her face

Like a soft, pale-petaled rose:
And my Love's breast
Like the rest

Of a snow-drift bright and white:
And to kiss there—
Ah! what compare

Can I find in rhyme for that!
Where is Love's own
Jewelled throne.

Love, when I die, your thought of me
Shall make the earth a magic bed.
Though buried in the deepest sea,
I shall not join the weary dead.

For you shall make me live and rise,
Your thought shall be my blood and breath—
And only when your memory dies
Will I too die—a double death.

The stars were bright as at their birth,
And angel-voices thrilled the air;
When, spirit-like, and pure as fair,
She came to bless our home on earth.

Her new-born life, like budding flower,
Awoke as from the slumbering night,
And smiled to greet the morning light,
And grew in love and artless power.

And, with the lapse of speeding years,
She grew in graces which adorn
The woman, lovely as the morn,
And beautiful 'mid hopes and fears.

With modest mien, enchanting all,

O POWER of Love, O wondrous mystery!
How is my dark illumined by thy light,
That maketh morning of my gloomy night,
Setting my soul from Sorrow's bondage free
With swift-sent revelation! yea, I see
Beyond the limitation of my sight
And senses, comprehending now, aright,
To-day's proportion to Eternity.
Through thee, my faith in God is made more sure,
My searching eyes have pierced the misty veil;
The pain and anguish which stern Sorrow brings
Through thee become more easy to endure.

Now the wheat is in the ear And the rose is on the brere
And blue caps so divinely blue With corn poppy's o' scarlet hue
Maiden at the close o' Eve Wilt thou dear thy Cottage leave
And walk with one that loves thee

When the Evens tiney tears Beads upon the horny spears
And the spiders lace wets through With its pinhead blebs o' dew
Wilt thou lay thy work aside And walk by brooklets dim descried
When my delight could love thee

While thy footfall lightly prest Tramples bye the skylarks nest

A LITTLE hand is knocking at my heart,
And I have closed the door.
“I pray thee, for the love of God, depart:
Thou shalt come in no more.”

“Open, for I am weary of the way.
The night is very black.
I have been wandering many a night and day.
Open. I have come back.”

The little hand is knocking patiently;
I listen, dumb with pain.
“Wilt thou not open, any more to me?
I have come back again.”

“I will not open any more. Depart.
I, that once lived, am dead.”
The hand that had been knocking at my heart