love poetry

I love the friendly faces of old Sorrows;
I have no secrets that they do not know.
They are so old, I think they have forgotten
What bitter words were spoken, long ago.

I hate the cold, stern faces of new Sorrows
Who stand and watch, and catch me all alone.
I should be braver if I could remember
How different the older ones have grown.

Because I love you more than all the world
I write of other things,
For how shall little words combine to tell
The wonder that love brings?

And yet if there be one frail song of mine
That finally endures,
By all the love my lips have never sung,
You know that it is yours.

Three charms I have to turn a dark world bright —
The thought of white ships sailing out to sea,
The moonlit mountains on a summer night,
And the remembrance of your love for me.

I have known beauty, I have walked with love
And I have held a child against my breast—
How then shall I fear pain or grief or death,
Being so blest?

Rather a song in my heart
With flashing wings,
Rather a jeweled dream
Than the wealth of kings.

Rather the pain of loving
Than all things sweet,
Rather the thought of you
Than the world at my feet.

I am not afraid of love that grows from a spark
To an all-consuming flame,
Though it wrap my life in a mantle of scarlet pain —
Though it blister my soul with shame.

But I am afraid of love that is born a flame
And slowly dies to a spark.
I am afraid of the bitter ashes of love —
Afraid of the dark!

I hate the man who o'er the wine-brimmed bowl
Sings ever of war and conquest; he delights
Me most who wit with lyric gifts unites,
And to love's charms divine gives up his soul.

Come ho! sweet page, pray fetch for me
A flagon of my favourite wine,
And let it mixed with water be.
(I will be moderate, I opine)
For I am fain once more to prove
The nectarous joys of wine and love.

The god of love I sing
Who garlands bears of many-coloured flowers;
Hearts ever conquering,
Mightiest of masters, subtle power of powers,
Thou rul'st the gods and all
Mortals thy wiles enthrall.

When Love beholds my beard that flows
White as the ocean's snowy spray,
He flies me swift as the eagle's flight
On rustling wings of golden light,
And seems to murmur as he goes,
“Old fellow, you have had your day.”