love poems

Thy strong arms are around me, love,
My head is on thy breast:
Though words of comfort come from thee,
My soul is not at rest:

For I am but a startled thing,
Nor can I ever be
Aught save a bird whose broken wing
Must fly away from thee.

I cannot give to thee the love
I gave so long ago —
The love that turned and struck me down
Amid the blinding snow.

I can but give a sinking heart
And weary eyes of pain,
A faded mouth that cannot smile
And may not laugh again.

In summer-time, when all the sky was blue,
And all the garden walks with flowers arrayed,
I sent, dear love, a little song to you.
I heard, you read it where the roses grew,
And then you said, such songs were only made
In summer-time, when all the sky is blue.
So, since you nothing care to prove me true,
I'll fret you not with any homage paid,
Save, love, that little song I sent to you —
I do but ask you, with no thought of rue,
While I shall stand afar off in the shade,
Remember once, when all your sky is blue,

Do you grieve no costly offering
To the Lady you can make?
One there is, and gifts less worthy
Queens have stooped to take.

Take a Heart of virgin silver,
Fashion it with heavy blows,
Cast it into Love's hot furnace
When it fiercest glows.

With Pain's sharpest point transfix it,
And then carve, in letters fair,
Tender dreams and quaint devices,
Fancies sweet and rare.

Set within it Hope's blue sapphire,
Many-changing opal fears,
Blood-red ruby-stones of daring,

How can you all go talking to my lovely
And violating the intimate sanctity
Of her white silence, telling my pale lovely
Of her rare beauty in the poor words that be.
While I who have some power to drill these words,
As fiery emblems of our intimacy,
Into a host more paramount than swords,
Yet fear to finger such proud delicacy,
And only want to bow down low my head
If even distantly I see her form,
Or suddenly feel stabbed by eyes, deep-spread
Of foam and shadow like a sea in storm,
Wondering with my hand across my mouth

Thy love thou sentest oft to me,
And still as oft I thrust it back;
Thy messengers I could not see
In those who everything did lack,
The poor, the outcast and the black.

Pride held his hand before mine eyes,
The world with flattery stuffed mine ears;
I looked to see a monarch's guise,
Nor dreamed thy love would knock for years,
Poor, naked, fettered, full of tears.

Yet, when I sent my love to thee,
Thou with a smile didst take it in,
And entertain'dst it royally,

A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,
That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.

" Speak, daughter, speak; art speaking now?"
" Seek, mother, seek; art seeking thou
Thy dear-loved Cora?" " Daughter sweet,
I bend unto the earth my ear
To catch the sound of coming feet;
I listen long, but only hear
The deep, dark waters running clear."
" Oh! my great mother, now the heat
Of thy strong heart in thickened beat
Hath reached thy Cora in her gloom,
Is't well with thee, my mother — tell?"
" Is't well with thee, my daughter?" " Well
Or ill I know not; I through fate
Queen of a wide unmeasured tomb

Oh, Man can seek the downward glance,
And each kind word — affection's spell —
Eye, voice, its value can enhance;
For eye may speak, and tongue can tell.

But Woman's love, it waits the while
To echo to another's tone,
To linger on another's smile,
Ere dare to answer with its own.

O, ONE I need to love me,
— And one to understand,
And one to soar above me,
— And one to clasp my hand,

And one to make me slumber,
— And one to bid me strive,
But seven's the sacred number
— That keeps the soul alive.

And first and last of seven,
— And all the world and more,
Is she I need in Heaven,
— And may not need before.

'T IS well to wake the theme of love
When chords of wild ecstatic fire
Fling from the harp, and amply prove
The soul as joyous as the lyre.

Such theme is blissful when the heart
Warms with the precious name we pour;
When our deep pulses glow and start
Before the idol we adore.

Sing ye, whose doating eyes behold,
Whose ears can drink the dear one's tone.
Whose hands may press, whose arms may fold,
The prized, the beautiful, thine own.

But, should the ardent hopes of youth