love poems

As in a porch of stars we stand; the night
Throbs through us, O Love, with its worlds of light,
And mingles us in glory of one breath,
One infinite ignorance of Time and Death
Behold, I am dyed in you, and you in me;
We are the colours of infinity,
We are two flames that are one flame,
We are but Love, and have no name
But did we part, O Love, if we could part,
The very blood were taken from my heart,
Time and Death would ride the night
Then, and ended were all light,
The stream of stars would fall like stone

Love eternal, when He planned
Fronded fern and forest tree,
Laid His meadows on the land,
Floated cloud-reefs o'er the sea,
Dreamed the wonder of your eyes
In the arches of the skies.

All the purport of your powers,
Love, the great Adventurer knew,
When He reared His granite towers,
Leaning stairs up to the blue,
Spreading o'er each lonely crest
Snowy coverlets of rest.

When of old the singing spheres
Waked the young earth with their strain,
Long ere yet the tidal years

There is a garden, which I think He loves
Who loveth all things fair;
And once the Master of the flowers came
To teach love-lessons there.

He touched my eyes, and in the open sun.
They walked, the Holy Dead,
Trailing their washen robes across the turf,
An aureole round each head.

One said, with wisdom in his infant eyes,—
‘The world I never knew;
‘But, love the Holy Child of Bethlehem,
‘And He will love you too.’

One said—‘The victory is hard to win,
‘But love shall conquer death.

Love, in Rosy Fetters caught,
To my Fair the Muses brought;
Gifts his Mother did prefer
To release the Prisoner;
But hee'd not be gone though free,
Pleas'd with his Captivity.

Now when I see your face, sweetheart, I know
What the rose feels that through the chilling night
Yearns for the sun, despairingly, when lo!
The sudden warmth, the glorious, great light!

Now when I hear your voice, sweetheart, I know
What the rose feels that drought hath almost slain,
That, thirsting, droops disconsolate, when lo!
The swift, cold air, the rapture of the rain!

M Y heart hath its Springtime, yea,
Its thrill of primal happiness,
Its swift, keen days of gold and gray,
Its crescent moon of promises.

I COME to thee blind, despairing,
I grope where I may not see:
Love, thou worker of miracles,
Open my eyes for me.

I come to thee deaf, unheeding,
Beggared of sound and voice:
Love, thou maker of marvels,
Bid me hear and rejoice.

I come to thee shunned—a leper,
Scorned in the sight of men:
Love, whose pardon is cleansing,
Make thou me clean again.

Love, thou worker of miracles,
Maker of marvels sweet,
Love, whose pardon is cleansing,
These my tears on thy feet.

Oh, ask not what is love, she said,
Or ask it not of me;
Or of the heart, or of the head,
Or if at all it be.

Oh, ask it not, she said, she said,
Thou winn'st not word from me!
—Oh, silent as the long long dead,
I, Lady, learn of thee.

I ask,—thou speakest not,—and still
I ask, and look to thee;
And lo, without or with a will,
The answer is in me.

Without thy will it came to me?
Ah, with it let it stay;
Ah, with it, yes, abide in me,
Nor only for today!

I thought of art, love.
We all must fare
The same kind of muse
As the traveling glare.

The list of eye cannot withhold
The joy of explanation bold
As foreign lands I'll
Never see.

I'll move for comfort;
I'll think a sleep—
And wake the marble perfume
From which my soul stirs inner deep.

MOTHER of Mildness! rosey-featur'd May !
In every varied bloom, voluptuous, drest,
I feel, I feel thy vivifying my
Inform, afresh, my animated breast!

My spirit, lighter than the woodlark's wing,
Ascending to salute the dewey dawn,
Pursues thy countless beauties, as they spring
O'er blossom'd bow'r, gay bank, or shaven lawn.

Flush'd with ethereal fervour, all around
Luxuriant landscapes fill the raptur'd sight,
Imagination's wildest wish is crown'd,
And Fancy's self is satiate of delight:

All my past Life is mine no more,
The flying Hours are gone:
Like transitory Dreams giv'n o'er,
Whose Images are kept in store
By Memory alone.

The Time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present Moment's all my Lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

The talk not of Inconstancy,
False Hearts, and broken Vows;
If I, by Miracle, can be
This live-long Minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heav'n allows.