love poetry

I will not
call it
merely his cruelty—
but just regard it
as the sad plight
of one
with no pledge
from a former life.

Vanquished and weary was my soul in me,
And my heart gasped after its much lament,
When sleep at length the painful languor sent.
And, as I slept (and wept incessantly),—
Through the keen fixedness of memory
Which I had cherished ere my tears were spent,
I passed to a new trance of wonderment;
Wherein a visible spirit I could see,
Which caught me up, and bore me to a place
Where my most gentle lady was alone;
And still before us a fire seemed to move,
Out of the which methought there came a moan

Lady of Heaven, the mother glorified
Of glory, which is Jesus,—He whose death
Us from the gates of Hell delivereth
And our first parents' error sets aside:—
Behold this earthly Love, how his darts glide—
How sharpened—to what fate—throughout this earth!
Pitiful Mother, partner of our birth,
Win these from following where his flight doth guide.
And O, inspire in me that holy love
Which leads the soul back to its origin,
Till of all other love the link do fail.
This water only can this fire reprove,—

“O Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me?
Me whom Thou settest in a barren land,
Hungry and thirsty on the burning sand,
Hungry and thirsty where no waters be
Nor shadows of date-bearing tree:—
O Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me?”

“I came from Edom by as parched a track,
As rough a track beneath My bleeding feet.
I came from Edom seeking thee, and sweet
I counted bitterness; I turned not back
But counted life as death, and trod
The winepress all alone: and I am God.”

Ah! once I thought I loved the rose
And once I loved the sky,
Its calm yet passionate repose,
Its blue eternity,—
But now I love thy lips and eyes,
Thy beauty I adore,
I worshipped flowers and summer skies
But thee I worship more.

I know not whether love is pain;
It sometimes brings despair:
Then blooms the summer rose in vain;
In vain it scents the air.
If thou dost wrap my soul in doubt
And bid bright hope fly far,
Though all night's countless stars shine out
I never see one star.

Where honeysuckles round our porch entwine,
Two mated thrushes wove their hidden dwelling,
Some instinct of familiar trust impelling
(More subtly true than timorous design)
Their choice of nesting in that house of vine.
They are returned! each tender bosom swelling,
Athrob with joy of spring, their love retelling,
Intoxicate with song's melodious wine!
Morning and evening, still one madrigal,
In few soft flute-notes warbled sweet and clear,
Quavers upon the perfumed atmosphere!
Their mutual bliss do these dear songsters call,

I must complain, yet doe enjoy my Love;
She is too faire, too rich in lovely parts:
Thence is my grief, for Nature, while she strove
With all her graces and divinest Arts
To form her too too beautifull of hue,
Shee had no leasure left to make her true.

Should I, agriev'd, then wish shee were lesse fayre?
That were repugnant to mine owne desires:
Shee is admir'd, new lovers still repayre;
That kindles daily loves forgetfull fires.
Rest, jealous thoughts, and thus resolve at last:
Shee hath more beauty then becomes the chast.

What had I been, lost Love, if you had loved me?
A woman, smiling as the smiling May,—
As gay of heart as birds that carol gaily
Their sweet young songs to usher in the day—

As ardent as the skies that brood and brighten
O'er the warm fields in summer's happy prime,—
As tender as the veiling grace that softens
The harshest shapes in twilight's tender time.

Like the soft dusk I would have veiled your harshness
With tendernesses that were not your due,—
Your very faults had blossomed into virtues

But for your Terror
Where would be Valour?
What is Love for
But to stand in your way?
Taker and Giver,
For all your endeavour
You leave us with more
Than you touch with decay!

Hours when I love you, are like tranquil pools,
The liquid jewels of the forest, where
The hunted runner dips his hand, and cools
His fevered ankles, and the ferny air
Comes blowing softly on his heaving breast,
Hinting the sacred mystery of rest.