love poems

Not hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot,
A wreath presaging life we twine;
If God be love, what sleeps below was not
Without a spark divine.

I love the dance of Bacchus, and desire
With blooming youths to join the vocal choir
To chords responsive of the dulcet lyre.

But most of all I love to crown my hair
With purple hyacinths, and eke to share
Love's blisses wantoning with virgins fair.

The shafts of envy, malice, jealousy,
Sting not my heart nor break life's harmony;
Let slander-loving tongues be far from me.

Broils over wine I hate; they spoil good cheer,
And cause the revels graceless to appear;
But dancing to the lute's soft tones and clear—

Methought my Love was dead. O, 'twas a night
Of dreary weeping, and of bitter woe!
Methought I saw her lovely spirit go
With lingering looks into yon star so bright,
Which then assumed such a beauteous light,
That all the fires in heaven compared with this
Were scarce perceptible to my weak sight.
There seemed henceforth the haven of my bliss;
To that I turn'd with fervency of soul,
And pray'd that morn might never break again,
But o'er me that pure planet still remain.
Alas! o'er it my vows had no controul.

I LOVE your face: but more
I love the light behind it.
The radiance doth outpour
Like firelight through a door,
And eagerly I find it.

I love your words; and yet
Your silences I cherish.
For words may bring regret
When Love's last sun has set—
Too soon, too soon they perish.

But light and silence live
Within the heart's hushed portal.
They are not fugitive,
And Love can never grieve
For that which is immortal!

1. Is there no balm in Christian lands, No kind physician there,
3. Must vile oppression's reckless form Still beat upon my soul,
To heal a broken heart and save A brother from despair?
No sun of freedom ever dawn, To make my spirit whole?
2. Is there no love in Christian hearts, To pity griefs like mine,
4. Just God, behold the Negro's woe; The white man's sins forgive;
No tender sympathetic art Sweet mercy to enshrine?
Open his heart thy love to know, And bid his brother live.

This little vault, this narrow room,
Of love and beauty is the tomb;
The dawning beam that gan to clear
Our clouded sky lies darkened here,
For ever set to us, by death
Sent to inflame the world beneath;
'Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again,
A budding star that might have grown
Into a sun, when it had blown.
This hopeful beauty did create
New life in Love's declining state;
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free:
His brand, his bow, let no man fear;

Things that are lovely
Can tear my heart in two—
Moonlight on still pools,
You.

Things that are tender
Can fill me with delight—
Old songs remembered,
Night.

Things that are lonely
Can make me catch my breath—
The hunger for lost arms . . .

A LAS , how bitter are the wrongs of love!
Life has no other sorrow so acute:
For love is made of every fine emotion,
Of generous impulses, and noble thoughts;
It looketh to the stars, and dreams of Heaven;
It nestles 'mid the flowers, and sweetens earth.
Love is aspiring, yet is humble, too:
It doth exalt another o'er itself,
With sweet heart-homage, which delights to raise
That which it worships; yet is fain to win
The idol to its lone and lowly home
Of deep affection. 'Tis an utter wreck

The few sere leaves that to the branches cling,
Fall not to-day, so light the zephyr's breath;
O'er Autumn's sleep now plays the breeze of Spring,
Like love's warm kiss upon the brow of death:
Serene the firmament, save where a haze
Of dreamy softness floats upon the air,
Or a bright cloud of amber seems to gaze
In mild surprise upon the meadows bare:
Summer revives, and, like a tender strain
Borne on the night-breeze to the wondering ear,
With tender sighs melts Winter's frosty chain,
And smiles once more upon the dying year:

I love her with the seasons, with the winds,
As the stars worship, as anemones
Shudder in secret for the sun, as bees
Buzz round an open flower: in all kinds
My love is perfect, and in each she finds
Herself the goal: then why, intent to teaze
And rob her delicate spirit of its ease,
Hastes she to range me with inconstant minds?
If she should die, if I were left at large
On earth without her—I, on earth, the same
Quick mortal with a thousand cries, her spell
She fears would break. And I confront the charge