love poetry

These lovely groves of fountain-trees that shake
A burning spray against autumnal cool
Descend again in molten drops to make
The rutted path a river and a pool.

They rise in silence, fall in quietude,
Lie still as looking-glass to every sense
Save where their lion-colour in the wood
Roars to miraculous heat and turbulence.

T HERE'S more in words than I can teach:
Yet listen, child! — I would not preach;
But only give some plain directions
To guide your speech and your affections.
Say not you love a roasted fowl,
But you may love a screaming owl,
And, if you can, the unwieldy toad
That crawls from his secure abode
Within the mossy garden wall
When evening dews begin to fall.
Oh! mark the beauty of his eye:
What wonders in that circle lie!
So clear, so bright, our fathers said
He wears a jewel in his head!

There was a young lady of station,
"I love man,' was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried: "You flatter,'
She replied: "Oh! no matter,
Isle of Man is the true explanation!'

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once — she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not travelled more.)

There was a knight, an he had a daughter,
An he wad wed her, wi muckle sin;
Sae he has biggit a bonnie bower, love,
An a' to keep his fair daughter in.

But she hadna been in the bonnie bower, love,
And no twa hours but barely ane,
Till up started Tammas, her ain true lover,
And O sae fain as he wald been in.

" For a' sae weel as I like ye, Tammas,
An for a' sae weel as I like the gin,
I wadna for ten thousand pounds, love,
Na no this night wad I let thee in.

" But yonder is a bonnie greenwud,

'Tis wind that do weäft on the clouds
In their way over hillheads;
An' waight that do roll on the water
A-winden round meäds;
An' drith that do draw on the cattle
To drink at the brook:
An' by love that the lad is a-twold
Where do live the feäir maid;
An' wi' guidance to good, oh! 'tis better
To goo than to rest.

There is no vacant chair. The loving meet,
— A group unbroken — smitten, who knows how?
One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;
— We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;
— He needed it so often, nor could we
Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.
— Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.

There is no vacant chair. If he will take
— The mood to listen mutely, be it done.
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache,

There is many a love in the land, my love,
—But never a love like this is;
Then kill me dead with your love, my love,
—And cover me up with kisses.

So kill me dead and cover me deep
—Where never a soul discovers;
Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep,
—In the darlingest tomb of lovers.

There are that love the shades of life,
And shun the splendid walks of fame;
There are that hold it rueful strife
To risk Ambition's losing game;

That far from Envy's lurid eye
The fairest fruits of Genius rear,
Content to see them bloom and die
In Friendship's small but kindly sphere.

Than vainer flowers though sweeter far,
The Evening Primrose shuns the day;
Blooms only to the western star,
And loves its solitary ray.

In Eden's vale an aged hind,
At the dim twilight's closing hour,

The sweetest lives are those to duty wed,
Whose deeds both great and small
Are close-knit strands of an unbroken thread,
Where love ennobles all.
The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells,
The Book of Life the slurring record tells.

Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes,
After its own like working. A child's kiss
Set on thy singing lips shall make thee glad;
A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;
A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense