love poems

Love, we were young once, and ran races
over rough ground in our best shiny shoes,
we kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces.

Our knees were filthy with our secret places,
with rituals and ranks, with strategy and ruse.
Love, we were young once and ran races

to determine the most rudimentary of graces
such as strength and speed and the ability to bruise.
We kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces,

and doing so left no permanent traces
because we fought and fell only to confuse

PROLOGUE

I

H E who writ this, not without pains and thought
From French and English theaters has brought
Th' exactest rules by which a play is wrought:

II

The unities of action, place, and time;
The scenes unbroken; and a mingled chime
Of Jonson's humor with Corneille's rhyme.

III

But while dead colors he with care did lay,
He fears his wit or ploThe did not weigh,
Which are the living beauties of a play.

IV

Plays are like towns, which, howe'er fortified

I WILL accept thy will to do and be,
Thy hatred and intolerance of sin,
Thy will at least to love, that burns within
And thirsteth after Me:
So will I render fruitful, blessing still,
The germs and small beginnings in thy heart,
Because thy will cleaves to the better part. —
Alas, I cannot will.

Dost not thou will, poor soul? Yet I receive
The inner unseen longings of the soul,
I guide them turning towards Me; I control
And charm hearts till they grieve:
If thou desire, it yet shall come to pass,

Love lives beyond
The tomb—the earth—which fades like dew
I love the fond
The faithfull & the true

Love lives in sleep
The happiness of healthy dreams
Eve's dews may weep
But love delightfull seems.

Tis seen in flowers
& in the evens pearly dew
On earths green hours
& in the heavens eternal blue.

Tis heard in spring
When light & sunbeams warm & kind
On angels wing
Bring love & music to the mind.

& where is voice

O NO , my heart can never be
Again in lighted hopes the same —
The love that lingers there for thee
Has more of ashes than of flame.

Still deem not but that I am yet
As much as ever all thine own;
Though now the seal of love be set
On a heart chilled almost to stone.

And can you marvel? only look
On all that heart has had to bear —
On all that it has yet to brook,
And wonder then at its despair.

Oh, Love is destiny, and mine
Has long been struggled with in vain —

I hate the Spring in parti-coloured vest,
What time she breathes upon the opening rose,
When every vale in cheerfulness is dressed,
And man with grateful admiration glows.
Still may he glow, and love the sprightly scene,
Who ne'er has felt the iron hand of Care;
But what avails to me a sky serene,
Whose mind is torn with Anguish and Despair?
Give me the Winter's desolating reign,
The gloomy sky in which no star is found;
Howl, ye wild winds, across the desert plain;
Ye waters roar, ye falling woods resound!

While summer roses all their glory yield
To crown the votary of love and joy,
Misfortune's victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.
So stands in the long grass a love-crazed maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her garish ribbons, smeared with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her tortured mind,

Madam
I hope you'll think it's true
I deeply am in love with you,
When I assure you t' other day,
As I was musing on my way,
At thought of you I tumbled down
Directly in a deadly swoon:
And though 'tis true I'm something better,
Yet I can hardly spell my letter:
And as the latter you may view,
I hope you'll think the former true.
You need not wonder at my flame,
For you are not a mortal dame:
I saw you dropping from the skies;
And let dull idiots swear your eyes
With love their glowing breast inspire,

Oh! weep with me the changing scene,
Torn from thy arms, devoured with spleen.
Instead of those dear eyes, I look
Upon the fire, or else a book:
But oh! how dull must either be
To eyes that have been studying thee!
Unless the poet does express
Something that strikes my tenderness,
I throw the leaves neglected by,
And in my chair supinely lie;
Or to the pen and ink I haste,
And there a world of paper waste.
All I can write, though love is here,
Does much unlike my soul appear.
Angry, the scrawling side I turn,

While vulgar souls their vulgar love pursue,
And in the common way themselves undo;
Impairing health and fame, and risking life,
To be a mistress or, what's worse, a wife:
We, whom a nicer taste has raised above
The dangerous follies of such slavish love,
Despise the sex, and in our selves we find
Pleasures for their gross senses too refined.
Let brutish men, made by our weakness vain,
Boast of the easy conquest they obtain;
Let the poor loving wretch do all she can,
And all won't please th' ungrateful tyrant, Man;