love poems

Love-lighted to the end, she may have thought,
As in she passed, ‘When was I here before?’
And when the radiant faces, more and more,
With old-home smiles their eager welcome brought,
Amid the gentle din she must have sought
His voice familiar at some opening door,
Ware of no change, love-folded as of yore,
Nor dreaming what Death's miracle had wrought.

Happy such morrows to love-lighted days!
The Heaven to her as Earth with him had been,—
The Earth to him as Heaven, because, within,
Her memories still vision all his ways.

All summer she scattered the daisy leaves;
They only mocked her as they fell.
She said: “The daisy but deceives;
There is no virtue in its spell.
‘He loves me not,’ ‘he loves me well,’
One story no two daisies tell.”
Ah, foolish heart, which waits and grieves
Under the daisy's mocking spell!

But summer departed, and came again.
The daisies whitened every hill;
Her heart had lost its last year's pain,
Her heart of love had had its fill,
And held love's secrets at its will.
The daisies stood untouched and still,

Thou hast wounded the spirit that loved thee,
And cherished thine image for years,
Thou hast taught me at last to forget thee,
In secret, in silence, and tears,
As a young bird when left by its mother,
Its earliest pinions to try,
Round the nest will still lingering hover,
Ere its trembling wings to try.

Thus we're taught in this cold world to smother
Each feeling that once was so dear;
Like that young bird I'll seek to discover
A home of affection elsewhere.
Though this heart may still cling to thee fondly

On Stella's brow as lately envious Time
His crooked lines with iron pencil traced,
That brow, erewhile like ivory tablets smooth,
With Love's high trophies hung, and victories graced,
Digging him little caves in every cell,
And every dimple, once where Love was wont to dwell;

He spied the God: and wondered still to spy,
Who higher held his torch in Time's despite;
Nor seemed to care for aught that he could do.
Then sternly thus he sought him thence to affright:
The sovereign boy entrenched in a smile,

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for a constant heart!
For these may fail or turn to ill:
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.

‘W HEN I was in thy chamber,
Alone, my love, with thee,
Night cast its shadow round us,
And none was there to see;
The very breeze was lying
Asleep within the tree;
Then who could tell, or who reveal,
This cruel tale of me?’

‘The lady moon was peeping,
And watch'd us through the tree;
A little star shot downwards,
And told it to the sea;
A sailor caught the whisper,
Who bore no love to me,
And sang, before a maiden's door,
This wicked tale of thee.’

‘W HEN I was in thy chamber,

With the kine on the mead
On a fine morn of May,
And the lass of the fold
Near them singing her lay,
The rays of the sun
Through the clouds did disclose
Day bright with glad light
And skies lit like the rose.

But 'twas no gathering herd
In the mead of the glen
That my spirit had stirred,
And me passing then,
But the handsomest lassie,
Looks and charm the most sweet,
On the hillock beside them,
Gentle, patient and neat.

My thoughts swam in wonder,
In a swither I staid,

Fair , my own darling, are the flowers of Spring . . .
Rathe primrose, violet, and eglantine,
Anemone and golden celandine:
Not less delicious all the birds that sing
Carols of joy upon the amorous wing,
Earine, in these sweet hours of thine.
Spring's youngest sister art thou, Lady mine,

Child who hast love for every living thing
Of earth and air. A moment now I linger—
Linger, and think of thee, and give thee this
Love-gift of rhymes made when my spirit was free.
If thou wilt touch it with a white forefinger—

And if, O Brethren of the Bleeding Heart,
Dreamers amid the Storm where Love gropes blind,
I have cried aloud for Joy to tear apart
The cloud of Fate that broods o'er Humankind;

If 'mid the darkness I have call'd, ‘Rejoice!
God's in His Heaven—the skies are blue and fair!’
If for a moment's space my faltering voice
Hath echoed here the infant's cry and prayer;

'Tis that the pang of pity grew too great,
Too absolute the quick sharp sense of pain,
And in my soul's despair, left desolate,

Spring breezes waft along the avenue
touching willow branches of bright gold.
Beside the road, a well-appointed horseman,
his knightly aura rivaling the spring!
Amidst bamboo, a delicate flower, a peach,
as ravishing as Lovely Lady Tung!
The knight dismounts, and whispers through the leaves,
suspecting she's a flower-spirit there.