love poems

What need of wit? What need of wile?
— I know your eyes are killing;
But oh! he isn't worth a smile
— Who isn't worth a shilling!
And yet, by all the gods of rhyme,
— And by your lips I swear,
Though all my love is loss of time
— And all my hope despair,
The glittering stream shall cease to stray,
— The wind refuse to rove,
All solid things shall melt away,
— Before I cease to love!

Fair Freedom shall be found in Quod,
— Stern Justice in the Quorum,
Carlile shall praise the grace of God,

As one who loving beyond words will bring
The hue and perfumes of a common rose
And trust a meadow's language to disclose
The true simplicity of offering;
Then, as he mutely gives his little, spring
Obscure slow tears that she who studies knows,
Till in some deeper knowledge both repose
And the old flower is now a useless thing.

(BOUTS-RIMeS)

They say, when the Great Prompter's hand shall ring
— Down the last curtain upon earth and sea,
— All the Good Mimes will have eternity
To praise their Author, worship love and sing;
Or to the walls of Heaven wandering
— Look down on those damned for a fretful d — — ,
— Mock them (all theologians agree
On this reward for virtue), laugh, and fling

New sulphur on the sin-incarnadined . . .
— Ah, Love! still temporal, and still atmospheric,
— — Teleologically unperturbed,

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
—Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
—They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
—And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but taking
—Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
—Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,

When I see you, who were so wise and cool,
Gazing with silly sickness on that fool
You've given your love to, your adoring hands
Touch his so intimately that each understands,
I know, most hidden things; and when I know
Your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow
Of his red lips, and that the empty grace
Of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face,
Has beaten your heart to such a flame of love,
That you have given him every touch and move,
Wrinkle and secret of you, all your life,
—Oh! then I know I'm waiting, lover-wife,

There was a damned successful Poet;
— There was a Woman like the Sun.
And they were dead. They did not know it.
— They did not know their time was done.
They did not know his hymns
Were silence; and her limbs,
That had served Love so well,
Dust, and a filthy smell.

And so one day, as ever of old,
— Hands out, they hurried, knee to knee;
On fire to cling and kiss and hold
— And, in the other's eyes, to see
Each his own tiny face,
And in that long embrace
Feel lip and breast grow warm

What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light—
Only a honey-thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colors
Of the whole world.

I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head

LOVE love to-day, my dear,
Love is not always here;
Wise maids know how soon grows sere
The greenest leaf of Spring;
But no man knoweth
Whither it goeth
When the wind bloweth
So frail a thing.

Love love, my dear, to-day,
If the ship's in the bay,
If the bird has come your way
That sings on summer trees;
When his song faileth
And the ship saileth
No voice availeth
To call back these.

Now, O now, in this brown land
— Where Love did so sweet music make
We two shall wander, hand in hand,
— Forbearing for old friendship' sake,
Nor grieve because our love was gay
Which now is ended in this way.

A rogue in red and yellow dress
— Is knocking, knocking at the tree;
And all around our loneliness
— The wind is whistling merrily.
The leaves — they do not sigh at all
When the year takes them in the fall.

Now, O now, we hear no more
— The villanelle and roundelay!

Dear heart, why will you use me so?
— Dear eyes that gently me upbraid,
Still are you beautiful — but O,
— How is your beauty raimented!

Through the clear mirror of your eyes,
— Through the soft cry of kiss to kiss,
Desolate winds assail with cries
— The shadowy garden where love is.

And soon shall love dissolved be
— When over us the wild winds blow —
But you, dear love, too dear to me,
— Alas! why will you use me so?