love poems

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE, DECEMBER 25, 1871 .

When I met thee, gentle lady, in the days of long ago,
This world of ours was fairer than it seemeth now, I trow.
The meadow grass was greener, the sky a deeper blue,
The stars in the heaven were brighter — brighter every drop of dew;
The shining rills and rivers sung a softer melodie,
As they went, arrayed in diamonds, to their bridal with the sea.
The birds made sweeter singing midst the summer-scented leaves,
Richer gold and crimson curtains hung around the dying eves,

I.

How hard is the poor Woman's Fate,
Whether she soon, or late is won,
No Thanks deserves, if 'tis too late,
Nor Love, if that she yields too soon.

II.

By Man, forc'd to Hypocrisie,
Yet for it, by him, most condemn'd,
Hated, if Love she does deny,
And yet, for granting it, contemn'd,

III.

By him, with whom she soon complies,
Is thought, a coming Easie Whore,

IMPROMPTU .

Hail unto thee grand literary giant!
Great voice that rings among us like a thunder:
Impeccable, unique, without a blunder,
To all in Nature comprehensive, pliant!

In thy rare art, immense and self-reliant,
Thy pure verse rends old crumbling creeds asunder,
Genius supreme, strange and immortal wonder,
We love thy omniscient heart, thy soul defiant!

I.

Variety I love, 'tis true,
But for Your Dear-dear-Sake alone;
Variety I find in You,
Who have all Woman's Charms in one.

II.

Your Humour varies like Your Look;
Which You so dayly change to me,
That, if with Change I were not took,
I cou'd not constant to You be.

III.

Blame me not, for Inconstancy,
Which more my Faith does to thee prove,
Did I not love Variety;

I.

Since Love's a Passion, Sense in Love,
Were senseless, dull Impertinence,
For Love, no more than Faith, we prove
By pedant Reason, babling Sense;
Faith in Love, as Religion too,
By Good-Works, not Good-Sense, we show.

II.

In busie Life's most base Concerns,
Of Honour, Pow'r, or Interest,
That Reason something more discerns,
Than Blind Faith can, it is confest;
But in the great Affair of Love,

I.

My pregnant Passion, fierce Desire,
Abortive made my Love;
By having too much of Love's Fire,
I did the Colder prove;
So too much Vigour did prevent
My Love, of its Accomplishment.

II.

As, in Beginning of our Love,
My Tongue was useless made,
But less did my Dame's Pity move,
The more my Love 'twould aid;
The Haste, and Fierceness of my Love,
Its Lett did, and Prevention prove.

III.

Our Flames were quench'd, by their Excess;
Our Joys less, for their Store;

Let each vain giddy-brain'd Poetic Fop
Talk of Parnassus , or its double Top,
And by his Fanciful Describing it,
Think to procure the vain Name of a Wit:
Whilst, Chloris! Thou, my Muse and Theme shalt be;
Thy Breasts, those Twins of Hills, shall be to me
Parnassus , since he, who is Head on them
Can lay, can ne'r want Wit on such a Theme,
Or Pleasant, Amorous, Poetic Dream:
Then once my Head upon them let me lay,
They higher Thoughts into it will convey;
They'll fire with Love, at once, my Breast and Brain,

I

I F from the Lustre of the Sun,
To catch your fleeting Shade you run,
In vain is all your Haste, Sir;
But if your Feet reverse the Race,
The Fugitive will urge the Chace,
And follow you as fast, Sir.

II

Thus, if at any Time, as now,
Some scornful Chloe you pursue,
In Hopes to overtake Her;

In Bourgueil Gardens more than one of yore
Engraved upon the bark names fondly sweet,
And many a heart 'neath Louvre's gold ceilings beat,
At flash of smile, with pride which thrilled to soar.

What matters it? — their joy or grief is o'er;
They lie in stillness where four oak boards meet
Beneath the sighing grass, with none to greet
Their voiceless dust that feeds oblivion's shore.

All die. Mary, Helen, Cassandra bold,
Your lovely forms would be but ashes cold,
— Nor rose nor lily sees the morrow's land —

A SCARECROW in a field of corn,
A thing of tatters all forlorn,
Once felt the influence of Spring
And fell in love — a foolish thing,
And most particularly so
In his case — for he loved a crow!

" Alack-a-day! it's wrong, I know,
It's wrong for me to love a crow;
An all-wise man created me
To scare the crows away, " cried he;
" And though the music of her " Caw"
Thrills through and through this heart of straw,

" My passion I must put away
And do my duty, come what may!