love poetry

It is good to be as you are, young, handsome, virile, alive to love and flesh——
ah, better than being a mere poet,
and with being a poet as well,
better than being a mere god,
for rare is the god who is young and handsome——
rare as a like poet.


O Catullus,
not even the god outlives the poet,
nor is the god more idolized by those who worship with the kiss——
for even Apollo thirsted for the liquor of the lips. Young, handsome, virile,
he waited and bewailed, with luck no better than Orpheus had,

Go, sweet Polymnia, Thanks for all your Cost
And Love to me; wherein no Love is lost.
As you have taught me various verse to use,
I have taught you to be a Christian Muse.

What is the whole world worth, Dear,
Weighed against love and truth?
Sweet is the spring to the earth, Dear,
Bright is the blossom of youth:

And the skies of summer are tender
In fullness of life and strength,
And rich is the autumn splendor,
But winter comes at length.

Tell me, what spell shall charm us
When the golden days expire?
What is there left to warm us
Save Love's most sacred fire?

While on the soul's high altar
Its clear light burns secure,
Though the step of joy may falter,

Oh blessing and delight of my young heart,
Maiden, who was so lovely and so pure,
I know not in what region now thou art,
Or whom thy gentle eyes in joy assure.
Not the old hills on which we gazed together,
Not the old faces which we both did love,
Not the old books, whence knowledge we did gather,
Not these, but others now thy fancies move.
I would I knew thy present hopes and fears,
All thy companions, with their pleasant talk,
And the clear aspect which thy dwelling wears:
So, though in body absent, I might walk

Artist of the skillful hand,
Grave me a bowl, and on it show
Floral pomp of gracious spring;
Listen now to my command:
On it let bright roses grow,
Carve me birds upon the wing.
Draw the revel's mirthful whirl,
All the mad wine-kindled swirl.

Tale of horror, cruel rite,
Battle-scene or sacrifice,
Do not there depict for me
Venus, queen of soft delight,
Bacchus reeling tipsy-wise,
On the cup let pictured be.
And beneath a broad-leaved vine
Let Love and Graces twine.

. . . . . . . . . But he found her not;
Lonely and empty was the leafy cot,
Like a sad streamlet in the winter's frost
With all the glory of its lilies lost.
He searched, he called: no answering voice was heard,
But a faint shudder that the branches stirred …

I weary of these noisy nights,
—Of shallow jest and coarse “good cheer,”
Of jazzy sounds and brilliant lights.
—Come, Love, let us away from here.

Let us lay down this heavy load;
—And, side by side, far from the town,
Drive on some lovely country road;
—And, wondering, watch the sun go down.

What time is left to us, come, Love.
—The woods, the fields, shall make us whole;
The nightly pageantry above
—Our little world, keep sweet our soul.

No peace this city's madness yields—

The winter-river's
Being frozen on top
Is like me:
Flowing underneath
My love seems to move.

O Pilgrim, comes the night so fast?
Let not the dark thy heart appall,
Though loom the shadows vague and vast,
For Love shall save us all.

There is no hope but this to see
Through tears that gather fast and fall;
Too great to perish Love must be,
And Love shall save us all.

Have patience with our loss and pain,
Our troubled space of days so small;
We shall not reach our arms in vain,
For Love shall save us all.

O Pilgrim, but a moment wait,
And we shall hear our darlings call

Johnny shall have a new bonnet,
—And Johnny shall go to the fair,
And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon
—To tie up his bonny brown hair.

And why may not I love Johnny,
—And why may not Johnny love me?
And why may not I love Johnny
—As well as another body?

And here's a leg for a stocking,
—And here's a foot for a shoe;
And he has a kiss for his daddy,
—And one for his mammy, too.

And why may not I love Johnny,
—And why may not Johnny love me?
And why may not I love Johnny,