love poems

In London far from grass or tree
Our love took form;
Far-off from wild song of the sea
In storm.

Not where the forest's silent bride,
The white moon, dreams,
Nor where the iris glows beside
The streams:

Not by green bank or scented mound,
By burn or mere,
My sad eyes caught thy glance and found
Thee dear.

In London, city of ceaseless gloom,
Grim sunless place,
I found one girlish flower in bloom,—
Thy face.

In London, where no stars are seen,
For all light dies,

There are three pines about the door,
No bird will light in save the crow,
Or the chill-hearted monkish owl,
Whose eyes peer out beneath his cowl.

Ascetic through the silent night
He keeps it; while the scornful crow
Its desolation keeps by day—
Its gloom … where passion once held sway.

And blood-guilt is the cause men give
Of its forsakenness and rack:
Love here once cut its own white throat;
And Nature thus has taken note.

And yet for no unfaithfulness
Or perfidy did the two die.

I love you for your brownness
And the rounded darkness of your breast.
I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice
And shadows where your wayward eye-lids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens
Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk
And something of the shackled slave
Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow's mate,
Keep all you have of queenliness,
Forgetting that you once were slave,
And let your full lips laugh at Fate!

Jesu, thy love within me is so main,
And my poor heart so narrow of content,
That with thy love my heart wellnigh is rent,
And yet I love to bear such loving pain.
O take thy Cross and nails and therewith strain
My heart's desire unto his full extent,
That thy dear love may not therein be pent,
But thoughts may have free scope thy love to explain.
O now my heart more paineth than before,
Because it can receive and hath no more.
O fill this emptiness or else I die.
Now stretch my heart again and now supply;

These are the little things that stir the heart,
Awaken memories of the yester-years,
Arouse old sorrows with a painful dart,
Becloud the brow and flood the eyes with tears,
Soft, soothing hands that weave love's ancient charm,
And softer voice that croons love's roundelay,
Firm, rounded breasts that crown thy slender form,
Dark, wistful eyes deep with the joy of day.
All but the vision of thy loveliness
That dwells within my heart and will not down,
All must I give for fate is merciless
And garbs my youth in age's sable gown.

Why should I sing when every living voice
Carols in joy for my love's holiday?
Why should I laugh when all the skies rejoice,
Blue-girt and silvered in each sun-kissed ray?
Yea, though the skies, the earth, each God-sent thing,
In flowering field, or glen, or deep-set moor,
Croon softly each to each, still shall I sing,
Tho weak the chords or be the accents poor.
These shall I bring for my love's golden fare,
These shall I give as down my days she trips—
Song-burthened zephyrs for her wind-blown hair,

“What of the old love?” cries my heart to me;
Ah let it die, I say; ah let it die.
Burdened it was with love's satiety,
Weep for it, heart, and give it sigh for sigh.
Keep but its purity to give the new,
Shed all the dross its sorrowed years had borne;
Keep but its joy to cheer the journey thru,
Dry all the tears that cloud my new love's morn.
Give me the passion that the old love brought,
Add to the measure of my new love's fire;
Give me the laughter that the old love wrought,
Add to the wealth of my new love's desire.

Had I but known when first I saw thee there,
Slender of form and happy in thy smile,
Would I have oped my hungry heart to bear
The burden now it carries all the while?
For but a child I lightly held thee then,
Nor cared to wake the starlight in thy eyes,
Nor dreamed this glad unrest. O where and when
Did love first spring from out the bourne of sighs?
Was it the touch of thy soft hand, the chords
Of love were wakened by, or thy warm breath
O'er gladsome smile or tender-spoken words,

The starlight crowns thee when thou standest there,
The shadows clothe thee in their robes of gray,
The night-winds sighing thru thy dusky hair
Echo the music of a vibrant day.
Such is the glory and the sight of thee
That filled my eyes this happy hour gone by,
Such is the glamour and the light of thee,
The lasting burden of love's ancient cry.
And that I love thee so I shall be singing,
(Dark are thy eyes and golden is thy smile),
Carols of joy to distant heavens ringing,
(Pure is thy soul and free thy heart from guile).

There shall be a song for both of us that day,
Though fools say you have long outlived your songs,
And when perhaps because your hair is grey
You go unsung, to whom all praise belongs,
And no men kiss your hands, your fragile hands
Folded like empty shells on lonely sands.
And you that were dawn whereat men shouted once,
Are sunset now, with but one worshipper.
Then to your twilight heart this song shall be
Sweeter than those that did your youth announce,
For your brave, beautiful spirit is lovelier