love poetry

Would I were Erin's apple-blossom o'er you,
Or Erin's rose in all its beauty blown,
To drop my richest petals down before you,
Within the garden where you walk alone;
In hope you'd turn and pluck a little posy,
With loving fingers through my foliage pressed,
And kiss it close and set it blushing rosy
To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast.

Would I might take the pigeon's flight towards you,
And perch beside your window-pane above,
And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you,

In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
Catching the lilt of every easy tune;
But when the day departs he sings of love,—
His own wild song beneath the listening moon.

I ROSE at midnight and beheld the sky,
Sown thick with stars, like grains of golden sand
Which God had scattered loosely from His hand
Upon the floorways of His house on high;
And straight I pictured to my spirit's eye
The giant worlds, their course by wisdom planned,
The weary waste, the gulfs no sight hath spanned,
And endless time for ever passing by.

Then, filled with wonder and a secret dread,
I crept to where my child lay fast asleep,
With chubby arm beneath his golden head

Meek , passionless, precise, with pallid face,
Judas grew up, his mother's constant joy,
Who thanked Jehovah daily that her boy
Of boyhood's viciousness had not a trace.
Yet, in the heart of that which she thought grace
A devil lurked, more subtle to destroy
Than any other Satan doth employ
To wreak his vengeance on the human race.

In after years, the man's soul grew so dead,
That when he met Love's Self and held Love's Hand,
Nay, kissed Love's Lips, he still could Love withstand.

FOUND IN H ERCULANEUM

What eyes have worshipped thee, O passionless
Cold stone, thou darling beauty of dead men
And buried worlds! What hearts in those days when
Beauty was god have longed for thy caress,
As, 'mid voluptuous feast and wild excess,
They saw the dawn-light of the Eastern skies
Crimson that brow and kindle in those eyes,
And felt their glutted passion's emptiness.
And still thou mockest us, O cruel stone,
And still thine eyes are gazing far away,
Drawing out man's love that loves thee all in vain.

Who hath not seen my love? Her violet eyes
Like morning blooms awake, and, all aglow,
The heav'nly fruitage yet untasted lies
On the full lip which swells and smiles below.
The movements of her noiseless feet keep time
To tremulous music of a world-old song
Which all the Hours do breathe into her ear;
And many, many languish in their prime,
For hopeless love of her who hath been long
My chiefest joy through the full-seasoned year.

Be not too boist'rous, or to free to take
Those curls into thy lap, O Summer wind!

Love was wanting songs to sing
On a golden day,
When the earth was bright with Spring
And the flowers of May.

So he lay beside the brink
Of a quiet stream,
Where the cattle go to drink
And the clouds to dream.

Sunbeams lit the woods around,
Breezes fanned his cheek,
And the blossoms on the ground
Almost seemed to speak.

In the branches overhead
Robin sang his love,
And the tender things he said
Filled the skies above.

Flitting through the scented air

Love hath built himself a house
Underneath the snow,
Where, amid the winter's storm,
He can keep his body warm,
When the winds do blow.

It is lined with leaves that fell
Half a year ago,
And around it linger yet
Odours of spring violet,
Underneath the snow.

If you come and try to peep
Into what's below,
Laughing loud, as if in fun,
Love jumps up and makes you run,
Pelting you with snow.

What does Love do night and day?
Would you like to know?

Love has gone a-straying,
Like a cloud in May,
Down the silent wind-ways,
Past the bounds of day.
When will he return again?
When will his fire burn again?
I am broken-hearted
Since sweet Love departed.

Love has gone a-straying—
Call him back to me,
Up the silent wind-ways,
Over land and sea.
Tell him he must bring again
Joys that I can sing again;
I am broken-hearted
Since sweet Love departed.

Love has gone a-straying,
Foolish, foolish Love,

The days and weeks are going, love,
The years roll on apace,
And the hand of time is showing, love,
In the care-lines on thy face;

But the tie that bound our hearts, love,
In the morning's golden haze,
Is a tie that never parts, love,
With the passing of the days.

For though Death's arm be strong, love,
Our love its light will shed,
And like a glorious song, love,
Will live when Death is dead.