love poems

The head of our purpose cleaves To the Loved One's threshold-sill,
For all that o'er us doth pass Betideth but of her will.

The like of the loveliness Of the Friend I've never seen,
Albeit with moon and sun Her cheek I mirror still.

How shall the East wind loosen The stress of our straitened heart,
That, fold upon fold, like the rosebud, Is twisted up with ill?

I'm not the only swillpot In this sot-burning world:
How many a head in this workshop Is pot-clay for wine to fill!

Of the love of her my heart the holy place is;
Mirror-holder this mine eye unto her face is.

I that bow not down to this world nor the other,
See, my neck beneath the burden of her grace is.

Thou the Touba, I the shape of the Beloved;
Each man's way of thought according to his case is.

In that sanctuary what am I, where the zephyr:
Curtain-holder of her honour's altar-space is?

Skirt-polluted an I be, what matter? Witness
To her purity the whole world, good and base, is.

O poet-sculptor of Hellenic themes
Who wanderest through the dim Italian vales,
Thy marbles wing us to immortal dales
Where gods recline by amaranthine streams.
Honor to him, who, by marmorean dreams
So carven that the ancient prestige pales,
Lifts us from out the sordid, and regales
The famished spirit with diviner gleams.

Mother of Love! — nay, Love itself thou art;
Born of the Sea, — sea-flower of fire and foam;
Wave-pillowed head; the sweet breast dolphin-tossed;
Thy loveliness — a pang that pierces home!

Now that the green hill-side has quite
Forgot that it was ever white,
With quivering grasses clothed upon;
And dandelions invite the sun;
And columbines have found a way
To overcome the hard and gray
Old rocks that also feel the spring;
And birds make love and swing and sing,
On boughs which were so bare of late;
And bees become importunate;
And butterflies are quite at ease
Upon the well-contented breeze,
Which only is enough to make
A shadowy laughter on the lake;
And all the clouds, that here and there

To Charlotte Cushman

As Love will carve dear names upon a tree,
Symbol of gravure on his heart to be,

So thought I thine with loving text to set
In the growth and substance of my canzonet;

But, writing it, my tears begin to fall —
This wild-rose stem for thy large name's too small!

Nay, still my trembling hands are fain, are fain
Cut the good letters though they lap again;

Perchance such folk as mark the blur and stain
Will say, It was the beating of the rain ;

My Boyhood's Love! Oh, not more sweet
Are the first wood-bird's notes in Spring,
Than the sweet thoughts that in my heart
Make music wild, beyond the art
Of even love-taught lips to sing!

No laughing, romping hoyden she,
With rosy cheeks and eyes of jet,
But still and mild, and in her cheek
(Its only rose) the white rose meek,
In scarcely fairer lilies set.

Her forehead parted locks of gold,

I.

As Love sat idling beneath a tree,
A Knight rode by on his charger free,
Stalwart and fair and tall was he,
With his plume and his mantle, a sight to see!
And proud of his scars, right loftily,
He cried, Young boy will you go with me?
But Love he pouted and shook his head,
And along fared the Warrior, ill-bested:
Love is not won by chivalry.

II.

Then came a Minstrel bright of blee,
Blue were his eyes as the heavens be,

Oh, 'tis a night, — on such a night as this
Methinks the earth itself must feel such bliss,
Such deep and quiet-breathing joy as we:
Loved one, come near, and look! nay, not on me,
Look upward — and yet turn not, love, — one kiss!
For nature for our love more beauteous is:
The heavens are all tremulous like a sea; —
Mark yon slow cloud that moves voluptuously
Across the moon and lags upon its face,
And drinks its light; — even as that vapor base
And born of earth, is made all silver-white,

O Listen, listen, while I plead with you!
The day is softly resting from its care;
The evening wind is breathing out a prayer:
The cloudy forms of spirits crowd the blue.

Thin spirit-forms that let the glory through,
With outstretched hands are swimming from the west;
One wears the crescent moon upon his crest,
And all are dropping blessings down on you.

They drop as gently as the dropping dew:
Dear love, dear love, for all that I would say,
There is no fitter place, no fairer day;

Being the Rare Joust of Love and Hate

A-many sweet eyes wept and wept,
A-many bosoms heaved again,
A-many dainty dead hopes slept
With yonder Heart-knight prone o' the plain.

Yet stars will burn through any mists,
And the ladies' eyes through rains of fate,
Still beamed upon the bloody lists
And lit the joust of Love and Hate.

O strange! or ere a trumpet blew,