love poems

She lives, she lives up in the hills,
Where mists and eagles are;
Blithe shepherdess of rocks and rills,
'Twixt mortal and a star.

Of acorns is her necklace made,
And reddest berries found;
While slender vines, in glossy braid,
About her brow are bound.

No fairy foots it half so light,
A dancing on the green;
Nor curls a sunny cloud so bright,
The pines and sky between.

My shepherdess of rocks and rills!
We dwell the world above;
She lives and loves up in the hills,
And I live in her love.

Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow—
We die.
Let us eat and drink. Wherefore borrow
From griefs that will never come nigh?
Spread the feast, pour the wine,
Wreathe the brows with rose-twine,
Woo the harp into pulses of passion divine.
Remember how soon
The belfry's dull rune
Shall summon us hence from our comrades boon.
Then deaf to their cry,
Unheeding the tears of this sorrow,
How low we shall lie!
Then, eat and drink, for tomorrow—
We die.

Let us love and laugh, for tomorrow—
We die.

High is the mountain-top—
But there's a lower peak.
Far away lives my love;
Nearer a girl's to seek.

Oxen and cows hath she—
My love of far away,
Loveliness only holds;
Yet is she rich to-day.

Linen all bleached and white
Lies in my neighbour's chest—
Ah, but an eyebrow black
Counts more than all the rest!

Fair maid so close to me,
What leagues are we apart—
Over the hills to thee
I come, I come, Sweetheart!

How many evenings, walking soberly
Along our street all dappled with rich sun,
I please myself with words, and happily
Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run;
And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies
Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask,
Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes
And traitor hand that fails the well loved task!

Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft
But he had put away his sleep, his ease,
The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed,
To brood upon such thankless tricks as these?

All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away,
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
The forms of men shall be as they had never been;
The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green;
The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song,
And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long;
The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills,
And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills.
The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox,

We who are left must wait the years' slow healing,
Seeing the things they loved, the life they lost—
The clouds that out the east come, huge, concealing
The angry sunset, burnished, tempest-tossed.
How will we bear earth's beauty, visions, wonder,
Knowing they loved them in the self-same way—
Th' exulting lightning followed by deep thunder,
Th' exhilaration of each dawning day?
Banners of northern lights for them loom greener,
Waving as waves the sea-weed's streamered head;
Where bent the swaying wheat, the sunburned gleaner

Although a thousand leagues two hearts divide,
That love has joined, the gulf is not so great
As that twixt two, who, dwelling side by side
Behold between, the black abyss of Hate.

'Tis past! the pangs of love are past,
I love, I love no more;
Yet who would think I am at last
More wretched than before?

How bless'd, when first my heart was freed
From love's tormenting care,
If cold indifference did succeed,
Instead of fierce despair?

But ah! how ill is he releas'd,
Though love a tyrant reigns,
When the successor in his breast
Redoubles all his pains:

In vain attempts the woeful wight,
That would despair remove,
Its little finger has more weight,

The colour tones that Rousseau loved so well,
Like blast and blare of music's bursting swell,
Are flushed of dying Autumn's wizard light
When troubled day sinks into sombre night,
And trace the tragic splendour of a quest
That organ peals of stately strain suggest.
His masterpieces pierce to Nature's mood
When sullen, elemental forces brood
Pregnant of passion, charged of wrathful force—
The solemn pause ere storm clouds take their course.

Dear little Friends, ah! would I had
A score of nice cig-boxes,
Wherewith to serve your tender loves—
You pretty hens and cockses!

But here alas! all I can find;
I pray you, don't reject 'em:
Perchance anon they'll serve a turn
Your fledglings to protect 'em.

So prosper, Sweets, your springtide loves
Secure from all life's dangers:
The Gods ordain you and your chicks
To every ill be strangers!