love poems

I send this ring of braided hair,
Asimple gift, to thee,
One more fond pledge of perfect trust,
And perfect peace, from me.

Thou 'lt wear it for our dear love's sake,
So fresh and pure and strong,
Far sweeter than the dreams of fame,
Of romance, or of song.

And when snows fall, or spring-flowers wave,
My cold, still breast above,
Dear, faithful heart, thou 'lt wear it then

Thou darest not love me!—thou canst only see
The great gulf set between us. Hadst thou love ,
'T would bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire!
Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup,
The draught thou 'st prayed for with divinest thirst,
For fear a poison in the chalice lurks?
Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage,
The power, the rapture, and the crown of life,
By the poor guard of danger set about it?
I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven
Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked

A legend has told us that Cupid and Death
Were driven by stress of the weather,
To an inn where they reveled in mischief and fun,
And cracked a full bumper together.
But Cupid, the rogue, with the arrows of Death.
A bunch from his own quiver mingled;
Thus oft an old swain is smitten by love,
Whom Death for a victim has singled.

A sailor's love is void of art,
Plain sailing to his port, the heart,
He knows no jealous folly:

'Twere hard enough at sea to war
With boisterous elements that jar—
All's peace with lovely Polly.

II.

Enough that, far from sight of shore,
Clouds frown, and angry billows roar,
Still is he brisk and jolly:

And while carousing with his mates,
Her health he drinks—anticipates
The smiles of lovely Polly.

Passive, and yet it is not passive.
There is no word to tell that droop of the head,
That turned-away rapt face, those outstretched arms:
Relinquishment, as of a woman yielding her body to love;
To the embrace of him she may nowise refuse;
Whose weakness, whose evil, whose un-love she sees,
But takes not back her faith;
Letting his will upon her be as her own will
To its utmost of asking;
Remembering — knowing as he cannot know —
The ends, the issues of love,
Yet without refusal of life or of death:

I.

When wilt thou break, my stubborn heart!
O Death! how slow to take my part!
Whatever I pursue denies;
Death, Death itself, like Mira, flies.

II.

Love and Despair, like twins, possest
At the same fatal birth my breast:
No hope could be; her scorn was all
That to my destin'd lot could fall.

III.

I thought, alas! that Love could dwell
But in warm climes, where no snow fell;
Like plants that kindly heat require
To be maintain'd by constant fire.

IV.

See! my soul 's serene invader !
See the face , I first, ador'd!
Heaven, for love , and pity , made her,
And with angel 's graces, stor'd.

Mark her forehead 's aweful rising ,
See her soul-subduing eyes !
Every look , and air , surprizing!
Modest, lively, soft, and wise.

Next to you , I own, I love her,
But your sweet, discerning, eye,
Must not, now, be jealous of her:
She's ne'er seen , but you are by .

Dear Anna, hast ne'er heard it told
How florists have the curious power
To graft on some rude garden-plant
A tender and exquisite flower?
Thus are our natures made as one,
In union mystic and divine;
Thus, sweetest rose of womanhood,
Thy life is blooming into mine.

" Forget " thee! Whence the childish fear?
Ah, vain would be such heart-recalling!
Have I not felt thine angel smiles, —
Thy tears upon my bosom falling?
How oft, when, through our lattice stealing,
The moonlight came in quivering gleams,

A rose once pressed against thy lips,
Then gayly flung to me,
Is all the gift I treasure up
In memory of thee;
It bringeth back that golden time,
Too beautiful to last,
The glad and love-lit past, Therese,
The glad and love-lit past!

Then comes the memory of the change
Which fell upon thy heart,
As falls the frost upon the rose
When summer suns depart;
And now returns that weary time
With doubts and glooms o'ercast,
The sad and mournful past, Therese,
The sad and mournful past!

Love has given me my singing, —
Take then what you have taken.
All the longing and denial,
The unrest my life has shaken,
I forgive. Much sorrow love can bring,
But it was love that stirred my lips to sing!

Oh, you taught to me my hunger,
You may claim me by that token;
But the word my hunger taught me
That my hunger might be spoken —
This to me, to me — not you — belongs;
You had my love, but mine shall be my songs!