love poems for her

I.

Her hair is as bright as the sunbeam's light,
And she walks with a regal grace,
And she bares full proud to the empty crowd
The wealth of her wondrous face;
And her haughty smile thus speaks the while:
"Approach me on bended knee!"
She's a beautiful star I could worship afar,
But--her love's not the love for me.


II.

Her hair is as black as the raven's back,
And her face--what a queenly one;
And her voice ripples out like the trembling shout

"O changeful woman! Constant man!"
Has been the theme for buried ages.
But here's the truth: say "No" who can--
Ye bards, philosophers, and sages:
Men buy their Hats all kinds of shapes;
Our own Welshwomen change their's never;
'Tis with their Hats as with their loves--
Where fancy rests the heart approves,
And, loving once, they love for ever!

The mist that rises from the river,
Evermore--evermore,
Tells how hearts are born to sever
As of yore--as of yore.
But the silvery mist returneth
Sparkling dew and blessed rain;
So the loving heart, though distant,
Comes again--comes again.

The stars that shine in brightness o'er us
In the sky--in the sky,
Speak of loved ones gone before us
Born to die--born to die,
Who, in days of earthly sadness,
O'er us watch with tender love,
As the starlight falls around us

In silent grief the blow we'll bear:
Though gone, with us she'll still abide.
Her name a shape of love will wear,
In viewless influence by our side.

WILLIAM CHILDS BREWER, died Jan. 24th, 1862, aged 7 years, and GEORGE
CLEVELAND BREWER, aged 5 years, at Springfield, Mass., Feb. 4th,
1862.


The noble boy amid his sports
Droop'd like a smitten flower
That feels the frost-king's fatal shaft,
And withers in its bower.

But then a younger darling sank
In childhood's rosy bloom,
And those whose hearts were one from birth,
Were brothers in the tomb.

Not in the tomb. Ah no! They rose
Through Christ their Saviour's love,

To all that love the far and blue:
Whether, from dawn to eve, on foot
The fleeing corners ye pursue,
Nor weary of the vain pursuit;
Or whether down the singing stream,
Paddle in hand, jocund ye shoot,
To splash beside the splashing bream
Or anchor by the willow root:

Or, bolder, from the narrow shore
Put forth, that cedar ark to steer,
Among the seabirds and the roar
Of the great sea, profound and clear;
Or, lastly if in heart ye roam,
Not caring to do else, and hear,

To friends at home, the lone, the admired, the lost
The gracious old, the lovely young, to May
The fair, December the beloved,
These from my blue horizon and green isles,
These from this pinnacle of distances I,
The unforgetful, dedicate.

Mine eyes were swift to know thee, and my heart
As swift to love. I did become at once
Thine wholly, thine unalterably, thine
In honourable service, pure intent,
Steadfast excess of love and laughing care:
And as she was, so am, and so shall be.
I knew thee helpful, knew thee true, knew thee
And Pity bedfellows: I heard thy talk
With answerable throbbings. On the stream,
Deep, swift, and clear, the lilies floated; fish
Through the shadows ran. There, thou and I
Read Kindness in our eyes and closed the match.

I LOVE to be warm by the red fireside,
I love to be wet with rain:
I love to be welcome at lamplit doors,
And leave the doors again.

Loud and low in the chimney
The squalls suspire;
Then like an answer dwindles
And glows the fire,
And the chamber reddens and darkens
In time like taken breath.
Near by the sounding chimney
The youth apart
Hearkens with changing colour
And leaping heart,
And hears in the coil of the tempest
The voice of love and death.
Love on high in the flute-like
And tender notes
Sounds as from April meadows
And hillside cotes;
But the deep wood wind in the chimney
Utters the slogan of death.