love poetry

I was not useful? So
He says, nor young nor strong.
My master ought to know,
I've followed him so long.

For many and many a day
I followed well content,
Might I but go the way
That he, my master, went.

I listened for his foot,
I strove his thought to scan;
For I was but a brute,
And he I loved was man.

O'er all that he held dear,
A patient watch to keep,
With light, attentive ear
I listened in my sleep.

The stealthy foot withdrew,
The daring hand was stayed;

Late, I love but quietness:
Things of this world are no more my concern
Looking back, I've known no better plan
Than this: returning to the grove
Pine breezes: loosen my robe
Mountain moon beams: play my lute.
What, you ask, is Final Truth?
The fisherman's song, strikes deep into the bank.

Beautiful goddess of the night,
Shining gently from above,
Whisper to me, oh, moon so bright,
Whisper of my absent love.
Moon, oh, beautiful moon, so bright,
Shedding gently your radiant light,
Tell me to-night, fair moon, won't you,
Does my sweetheart love me true?

Moon, as upon my pillow white
Your bright beams fall from above,
Bathing my head with mellow light,
Oh, let me dream of my love.
Moon, oh, beautiful moon, so bright,
Let me dream of my love to-night;
Tell me of him, oh, fair moon, do,

Not hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot,
A wreath presaging life we twine;
If God be love, what sleeps below was not
Without a spark divine.

I love the dance of Bacchus, and desire
With blooming youths to join the vocal choir
To chords responsive of the dulcet lyre.

But most of all I love to crown my hair
With purple hyacinths, and eke to share
Love's blisses wantoning with virgins fair.

The shafts of envy, malice, jealousy,
Sting not my heart nor break life's harmony;
Let slander-loving tongues be far from me.

Broils over wine I hate; they spoil good cheer,
And cause the revels graceless to appear;
But dancing to the lute's soft tones and clear—

Methought my Love was dead. O, 'twas a night
Of dreary weeping, and of bitter woe!
Methought I saw her lovely spirit go
With lingering looks into yon star so bright,
Which then assumed such a beauteous light,
That all the fires in heaven compared with this
Were scarce perceptible to my weak sight.
There seemed henceforth the haven of my bliss;
To that I turn'd with fervency of soul,
And pray'd that morn might never break again,
But o'er me that pure planet still remain.
Alas! o'er it my vows had no controul.

I LOVE your face: but more
I love the light behind it.
The radiance doth outpour
Like firelight through a door,
And eagerly I find it.

I love your words; and yet
Your silences I cherish.
For words may bring regret
When Love's last sun has set—
Too soon, too soon they perish.

But light and silence live
Within the heart's hushed portal.
They are not fugitive,
And Love can never grieve
For that which is immortal!

1. Is there no balm in Christian lands, No kind physician there,
3. Must vile oppression's reckless form Still beat upon my soul,
To heal a broken heart and save A brother from despair?
No sun of freedom ever dawn, To make my spirit whole?
2. Is there no love in Christian hearts, To pity griefs like mine,
4. Just God, behold the Negro's woe; The white man's sins forgive;
No tender sympathetic art Sweet mercy to enshrine?
Open his heart thy love to know, And bid his brother live.

This little vault, this narrow room,
Of love and beauty is the tomb;
The dawning beam that gan to clear
Our clouded sky lies darkened here,
For ever set to us, by death
Sent to inflame the world beneath;
'Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again,
A budding star that might have grown
Into a sun, when it had blown.
This hopeful beauty did create
New life in Love's declining state;
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free:
His brand, his bow, let no man fear;

Things that are lovely
Can tear my heart in two—
Moonlight on still pools,
You.

Things that are tender
Can fill me with delight—
Old songs remembered,
Night.

Things that are lonely
Can make me catch my breath—
The hunger for lost arms . . .