love poetry

IN PRAISE OF MISS ISABELLA JOHNSTON, AFTERWARDS MRS. LAWS OF SPRINGWELL, THE POET'S COUSIN .

I gave my love a chain of gold
Around her neck to bind;
She keeps me in a faster hold,
And captivates my mind.

Methinks that mine's the harder part:
Whilst, 'neath her lovely chin,
She carries links outside her heart,
My fetters are within.

I had a heart that doted once in passion's boundless pain,
And though the tyrant I abjured I could not break his chain;
But now that Fancy's fire is quenched, and ne'er can burn anew,
I've bid to Love for all my life adieu! adieu! adieu!

I've known, if ever mortal knew, the spells of Beauty's thrall,
And, if my song has told them not, my soul has felt them all;
But Passion robs my peace no more, and Beauty's witching sway
Is now to me a star that's fallen — a dream that's passed away.

I GAVE her a rose in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Each petal I said is a note in the tune,
The rose is the whole tune through and through,
The tune is the whole red-hearted rose,
Flush and form, honey and hue,
Lull with the cadence and throb to the close,
I love you, I love you, I love you.

She gave me a rose in early June,
Fed with the sun and the dew,
Each petal she said is a mount in the moon,
The rose is the whole moon through and through,
The moon is the whole pale-hearted rose,

Love, we were young once, and ran races
over rough ground in our best shiny shoes,
we kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces.

Our knees were filthy with our secret places,
with rituals and ranks, with strategy and ruse.
Love, we were young once and ran races

to determine the most rudimentary of graces
such as strength and speed and the ability to bruise.
We kicked at stones, we fell over, pulled faces,

and doing so left no permanent traces
because we fought and fell only to confuse

PROLOGUE

I

H E who writ this, not without pains and thought
From French and English theaters has brought
Th' exactest rules by which a play is wrought:

II

The unities of action, place, and time;
The scenes unbroken; and a mingled chime
Of Jonson's humor with Corneille's rhyme.

III

But while dead colors he with care did lay,
He fears his wit or ploThe did not weigh,
Which are the living beauties of a play.

IV

Plays are like towns, which, howe'er fortified

I WILL accept thy will to do and be,
Thy hatred and intolerance of sin,
Thy will at least to love, that burns within
And thirsteth after Me:
So will I render fruitful, blessing still,
The germs and small beginnings in thy heart,
Because thy will cleaves to the better part. —
Alas, I cannot will.

Dost not thou will, poor soul? Yet I receive
The inner unseen longings of the soul,
I guide them turning towards Me; I control
And charm hearts till they grieve:
If thou desire, it yet shall come to pass,

Love lives beyond
The tomb—the earth—which fades like dew
I love the fond
The faithfull & the true

Love lives in sleep
The happiness of healthy dreams
Eve's dews may weep
But love delightfull seems.

Tis seen in flowers
& in the evens pearly dew
On earths green hours
& in the heavens eternal blue.

Tis heard in spring
When light & sunbeams warm & kind
On angels wing
Bring love & music to the mind.

& where is voice

O NO , my heart can never be
Again in lighted hopes the same —
The love that lingers there for thee
Has more of ashes than of flame.

Still deem not but that I am yet
As much as ever all thine own;
Though now the seal of love be set
On a heart chilled almost to stone.

And can you marvel? only look
On all that heart has had to bear —
On all that it has yet to brook,
And wonder then at its despair.

Oh, Love is destiny, and mine
Has long been struggled with in vain —

I hate the Spring in parti-coloured vest,
What time she breathes upon the opening rose,
When every vale in cheerfulness is dressed,
And man with grateful admiration glows.
Still may he glow, and love the sprightly scene,
Who ne'er has felt the iron hand of Care;
But what avails to me a sky serene,
Whose mind is torn with Anguish and Despair?
Give me the Winter's desolating reign,
The gloomy sky in which no star is found;
Howl, ye wild winds, across the desert plain;
Ye waters roar, ye falling woods resound!

While summer roses all their glory yield
To crown the votary of love and joy,
Misfortune's victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.
So stands in the long grass a love-crazed maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her garish ribbons, smeared with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her tortured mind,