love poetry

Whether awaken'd from unquiet rest
 I watch “the opening eyelids of the Morn,”
When thou, O Sun! from Ocean's silver'd breast
 Emerging, bidst another day be born—
Or whether in thy path of cloudless blue,
 Thy noontide fires I mark with dazzled eyes;
Or to the West thy radiant course pursue,
 Veil'd in the gorgeous broidery of the skies,
Celestial lamp! thy influence bright and warm
 That renovates the world with life and light
Shines not for me—for never more the form
 I loved—so fondly loved, shall bless my sight;

Ye towers sublime! deserted now and drear!
Ye woods! deep sighing to the hollow blast,
The musing wanderer loves to linger near,
While History points to all your glories past:
And startling from their haunts the timid deer,
To trace the walks obscured by matted fern,
Which Waller's soothing lyre were wont to hear,
But where now clamours the discordant hern!
The spoiling hand of Time may overturn
These lofty battlements, and quite deface
The fading canvas whence we love to learn
Sydney's keen look, and Sacharissa's grace;

The night was a failure
but why not — — ?

In the darkness
with the pale dawn seething at the window
through the black frame
I could not be free,
not free myself from the past, those others —
and our love was a confusion,
there was a horror,
you recoiled away from me

Now, in the morning
As we sit in the sunshine on the seat by the little shrine,
And look at the mountain-walls,
Walls of blue shadow,
And see so near at our feet in the meadow
Myriads of dandelion pappus

No more, blind god! for see, my heart
Is made thy quiver, where remains
No void place for another dart;
And, alas! that conquest gains
Small praise, that only brings away
A tame and unresisting prey.

Behold a nobler foe, all arm'd,
Defies thy weak artillery,
That hath thy bow and quiver charm'd,
A rebel beauty, conquering thee:
If thou dar'st equal combat try,
Wound her, for 'tis for her I die.

Come feed with me and be my love,
And pleasures of the table prove,
Where Prunier and The Ivy yield
Choice dainties of the stream and field.

At Claridge thou shalt duckling eat,
Sip vintages both dry and sweet,
And thou shalt squeeze between thy lips
Asparagus with buttered tips.

On caviare my love shall graze,
And plump on salmon mayonnaise,
And browse at Scott's beside thy swain
On lobster Newburg with champagne.

Between hors d'aeuvres and canapes
I'll feast thee on poularde souffle

Many roses in the wind
Are tapping at the window-sash
A hawk is in the sky; his wings
Slowly begin to plash.

The roses with the west wind rapping
Are torn away, and a splash
Of red goes down the billowing air.

Still hangs the hawk, with the whole sky moving
Past him — only a wing-beat proving
The will that holds him there.

The daisies in the grass are bending,
The hawk has dropped, the wind is spending
All the roses, and unending
Rustle of leaves washes out the rending
Cry of a bird.

When the wind blows her veil
And uncovers her laughter
I cease, I turn pale.
When the wind blows her veil
From the woes I bewail
Of love and hereafter:
When the wind blows her veil
I cease, I turn pale

A CALM EVENING .

Look on these waters, with how soft a kiss
They woo the pebbled shore! then steal away,
Like wanton lovers, — but to come again,
And die in music! — There, the bending skies
See all their stars, — and the beach-loving trees,
Osiers and willows, and the watery flowers,
That wreathe their pale roots round the ancient stones,
Make pictures of themselves!

Hide not, sweetest Love, a sight so pleasing
As those smalls so light composed,
Those fair pillars your knees gently easing,
That tell wonders, being disclosed.
O show me yet a little more:
Here's the way, bar not the door.

How like sister's twines these knees are joined
To resist my bold approaching!
Why should beauty lurk like mines uncoined?
Love is right and no encroaching.
O show me yet a little more:
Here's the way, bar not the door.

O Love, where are thy Shafts, thy Quiver, and thy Bow?
Shall my wounds onely weepe, and hee ungaged goe?
Be just, and strike him, to, that dares contemne thee so.

No eyes are like to thine, though men suppose thee blinde,
So fayre they levell when the marke they list to finde:
Then strike, o strike the heart that beares the cruell minde.

Is my fond sight deceived? or doe I Cupid spye
Close ayming at his breast, by whom despis'd I dye?
Shoot home, sweet Love , and wound him, that hee may not flye!