love poems

If she you loved has proved unkind,
Love one that will be fonder;
Or, better, leave the town behind —
Strap wallet on, and wander!

You soon will reach a lake of blue
Enclosed by weeping willows;
There let your trivial tears bedew
The grass, and spare your pillows.

Then climb the rugged mountain sheer;
Though toil and stress confound you,
When you are on the top you'll hear
The eagles calling round you.

And free as they, and strong of wing,
Your life and strength renewing,

Wild caresses, tender woes,
Dallying with the burning rose,
Fragrance sweet and lovely lies,
Passion rude in noble guise,
Love — its arts, its blisses, sighs —
Masters are the French in those.

For the art of hating, none
Like the Germans. Hate begun,
In the soul the drops distil
And the poison mounts until
There's enough at last to fill
Even Heidelberg's vast tun.

Every evening in the twilight,
To and fro beside the fountain
Where the waters whitely murmured,
Walked the Sultan's lovely daughter.

And a youth, a slave, was standing
Every evening by the fountain
Where the waters whitely murmured;
And his cheek grew pale and paler.

Till one eve the lovely princess
Paused and asked him on a sudden:
" I would know thy name and country;
I would know thy home and kindred. "

And the slave replied, " Mohammed
Is my name; my home is Yemen;

Hast thou a look for me, love?
A glance is lightly given;
Though small the cost to thee, love,
To me it may be heaven.

Hast thou a smile for me, dear?
One smile may chain a rover;
A laughing lip, a flashing eye,
And Love's first page turns over.

Hast thou a word for me, love?
Why not a soul is near thee;
And there is none that will betray,
And only one to hear thee.

Hast thou a kiss for me, dear?
O spoil it not by keeping,
For cheeks will fade, and hearts grow cold,

While sunset stains the windows of the west
In parting glory drest,
Ere yet the evening star leads in the hours
That hush all voices in their leafy bowers
Save the lone bird's that shuns the light;
Ere in the burning chamber of the night
With sacramental rite
Of dewdrops on the cerements of the flowers
Its burden dropped, its sins confessed
Our long drawn day is laid at length at rest
We, flung together as the seeds are thrown
The sower's hand has strown,
But clinging as the iron sands that feel

IN MEMORY OF A SON OF ARCHDEACON FARRAR

Afar he sleeps whose name is graven here,
Where loving hearts his early doom deplore;
Youth, promise, virtue, all that made him dear
Heaven lent, earth borrowed, sorrowing to restore.

Your wife and your friends may desert you
And call you a — — Rat,
And all the wide world may reproach you;
But your Country will never do that.

You might lose all your faith in what's human
And hate for the present and past.
You may damn it all: Land, Man, and Woman;
But you'll fight for your country at last!

MEZEREON .

One wintry morn an icicle lay,
Chained, in the sunlight calm and clear,
To a graceful, delicate, frost-bound spray,
Like a diamond-drop in Beauty's ear.

My eye was caught by a strange, rich gleam,
That fitfully played in the pendant pure,
And I thought I saw two bright wings beam
Through the luminous ice; but I was not sure.

I stole to the place, and there — behold!
A fairy child in the icicle's heart!
Tossing his tresses of curled gold,

This life we know, of bliss and woe,
Then what will soft unfold;
Ah, sweet the years of loves and fears,
And youth's mad minted gold.

This life we know but lordly powers,
Above, below, that be,
What of the voyage that is ours
Over the unknown sea!

One kiss for thy brow, love —
One sigh to the past —
One heart-echoed vow, love —
The fondest and last! —
For the true and warm-hearted
In anguish must sever;
It is o'er — we are parted,
Henceforth and for ever!

Yet as Night's scented flower,
Shunning Sunlight's caresses,
Gives the hallowed star-hour
All the wealth it possesses,
So to thee, in thy sadness,