love poems for her

Thy voice, as tender as the light
That shivers low at eve—
Thy hair, where myriad flashes bright
Do in and outward weave—
Thy charms in their diversity
Half frighten and astonish me.

Thine eyes, that hold a mirth subdued
Like deep pools scattering fire—
Mine dare not meet them in their mood,
For fear of my desire,
Lest thou that secret do descry
Which evermore I must deny.

Hard is the world that does not give
To every love a place;
Hard is the power that bids us live
A life bereft of grace—

Ah, Christ, I love you rings to the wild sky
And I must think a little of the past:
When I was ten I told a stinking lie
That got a black boy whipped; but now at last
The going years, caught in an after-glow,
Reverse like balls englished upon green baize—
Let them return, let the round trumpets blow
The ancient crackle of the Christ's deep gaze.
Deafened and blind, with senses yet unfound,
Am I, untutored to the after-wit
Of knowledge, knowing a nightmare has no sound;
Therefore with idle hands and head I sit

Seene? and yet hated thee? they did not see,
They saw Thee not, that saw and hated thee:
No, no, they saw thee not, o Life, o Love,
Who saw ought in thee, that their hate could move.

Lett fickle Fortune runn her blyndest race,
I setled have an unremovèd mynde;
I scorne to be the game of Phancie's chase,
Or fane to shewe the change of every winde.
Light giddy humours, stinted to no rest,
Still change their choyse, yet never choose the best.

My choise was guided by foresightfull heede,
It was averrèd with approvinge will;
It shall be followed with performinge deede,
And seald with vow, till death the chooser kill.
Yea death, though finall date of vayne desires,

XVIII

Though I myself be bridled of my mind,
Returning me backward by force express,
If thou seek honour to keep thy promise,
Who may thee hold, my heart, but thou thyself unbind?
Sigh then no more since no way man may find
Thy virtue to let though that frowardness
Of fortune me holdeth; and yet as I may guess,
Though other be present, thou art not all behind.
Suffice it then that thou be ready there
At all hours, still under the defence
Of time, truth, and love to save thee from offence,
Crying, ‘I burn in a lovely desire

As they sipped their tea round the table,
Their talk was of Love alone;
The gentlemen's arguments were able,
The ladies', more tender in tone.

“Love surely should be platonic,”
Said the Councillor wizened and dry;
His consort's smile was ironic,
Yet she none the less sighed a sigh.

Quoth the ponderous Canon clearly:
“Love must not be gross, you know,
Or health will suffer severely.”
The young lady simpered: “How so?”

Cried the Countess in accents heart-rending:
“Love, love seems resistless to me!”

I have loved thee, still love thee, and evermore
Amid a world's undoing,
The flames of my love for thee shall soar
From out the shattered ruin.

And after I have loved thee so,
When my death-hour is near me,
I shall bear with me to the grave below
The deep love-wounds that sear me.

And canst thou have forgotten wholly
How long thy heart was mine, mine solely?
That small heart so sweet, and so false, and so wee,
Nought sweeter, nought falser could ever be.

Canst thou have forgotten the love and anguish
Wherewith my heart oppressed did languish?
I know not if love was greater than care,
I only know how great both were.

Yes, thou art wretched, and all grudge departs.
O Love, we cannot 'scape from wretchedness.
Till Death himself shall break our stricken hearts,
O Love, we cannot 'scape from wretchedness.

The mockery on thy lip, I see it well;
I see defiance flashing from thine eye;
I see the pride which makes thy bosom swell—
Yet art thou wretched, wretched even as I.

But pain will twitch the lip unseen of all;
In that proud bosom hidden wounds do lie;
That eye is dimmed by tears that dare not fall—

Thou must twine thee so lovingly round me,
Thou woman, dear, lovely and warm;
Till with arms and with feet thou hast bound me,
And with all the lithe grace of thy form.

Then she threw herself mightily on me;
She twined, and she wound, and she pressed;
She won me, most beautiful serpent!
Her Laocöon the thrice blest.