love poetry

I F you were dead, Love — what would Life be then?
The south-west wind — the breathing balm — the sweet,
Still fragrant, freshness of the morning — when
The first bird calls and dawn's swift-sailing fleet
Sweeps past the head-lands of the sky's wide sea;
What touch of cheer could all these bring to me
If you were dead?

If you were dead, Love — and this blissful field,
New-greening now from soft September's rain,

I

Soon as the busy Day is o'er,
And Evening comes with pleasant shade,
We Gondoliers from shore to shore,
Merrily ply our jovial trade.

And while the Moon shines on the stream,
And as soft music breathes around;
The feathering oar returns the gleam,
And dips in concert to the sound.

II

HAIL ! daughter of the sun!
White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now
In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow,
Crowned with white blooms, begun
To grow a-weary of its fragrant wreath,
And do thy temples long to ache beneath
A gilded, iron crown?
Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car
To be the gleam of some new-risen star —
Yond clamor, for renown?

Stay, lovely one, oh stay!
Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain:

Birds are singing in the closes —
Singing for joy of June.
Scent of English violets
Mingles with the mignonette's;
And the garden's red with roses,
When the glad brown thrushes croon —
Thrushes crooning in the closes
All this rose-sweet June.

Rarer joy than yours has found me,
Birds of the rose-sweet June!
Maidenhood with Maytime ended;
Love, the strong one, o'er me bended,
And with orange blossoms crowned me
In the hot, sweet summer noon.
Rarer joy than yours has found me —

I GAVE my love a budding rose
My infant passion to disclose;
And, looking in her radiant eye,
I sought to read my destiny:
She breathed upon it — it became,
Mature in form, no more the same,
As when with timid fears opprest.

I placed the rose bud on her breast.
Again she breathed in sportive play,
And wafted all the leaves away;
" And thus, " she cried, " your vows of love
As passing and as light would prove
As this dispersed and faded flow'r;
One sigh expanded it to bloom,

I'm a boy of all work, a complete little servant,
Tho' now out of place, like a beggar I rove;
Though in waiting so handy, in duty so fervent,
The Heart (could you think it?) has turn'd away Love!

He pretends to require, growing older and older,
A nurse more expert his chill fits to remove;
But sure ev'ry Heart will grow colder and colder
Whose fires are not lighted and fuel'd by Love!

He fancies that Friendship, my puritan brother,
In journies and visits more useful will prove;

The orange hangs upon the blooming tree,
 The blushing roses load the lifted vine,
 The wandering air, faint-scented of the brine,
Comes stealing softly from the distant sea.

Awake, my love, my love, I sing to thee,
 The stars are dreaming in the far-off sky,
The night's warm wing will shelter thee and me,
 The white-plumed yucca guards the gate hard by.

  Here at thy window, love, I stand,
   And bless thy heart the while;
  Awake, my love, stretch forth thy hand,
   And bless me with thy smile.

One conned my simple lines with cynic art,
Then smiled, as though he found a friend in me,
And read: “If Love alone possess your heart,
Then can you never more unhappy be.”

Another, feeling still Love's bitter dart,
Smiled through her joyful tears triumphantly,
And read: “If Love alone possess your heart,
“Then can you nevermore unhappy be.”

Into the air I breathed a sigh;
She, afar, another breathed —
Sighs that, like a butterfly,
Each went wandering low and high,
Till the air with sighs was wreathed.

When each other long they sought,
On a star-o'er-twinkled hill
Jasmine, trembling with the thought,
Both within her chalice caught,
A lover's potion to distil.

Drank of this a nightingale,
Guided by the starlight wan —
Drank and sang from dale to dale,
Till every streamlet did exhale
Incense to the waking dawn.

Love begg'd and pray'd old Time to stay,
Whilst he and Psyche toy'd together;
Love held his wings, Time tore away,
But, in the scuffle, dropp'd a feather!

Love seiz'd the prize, and with his dart,
Adroitly work'd to trim and shape it; —
" O Psyche! tho' 'tis pain to part,
This charm shall make us half escape it!

" Time need not fear to fly too slow,
When he this useful loss discovers;
A pen's the only plume I know,
That wings his pace for absent lovers! "