love poetry

I can remember our sorrow, I can remember our laughter;
I know that surely we kissed and cried and ate together;
I remember our places and games, and plans we had—
The little house and how all came to naught—
Remember well:
But I cannot remember our love,
I cannot remember our love.

Who shall sing of the bridal in valleys of autumn, among the vineyards and the cornfields,
Or tell of the scent of apples on the night of love?
Who shall chant of the blood-red harvest-moon above the granaries and the wine-press,
And dropping fruits and the kiss of Adam and Eve?

O white miraculous bodies that becoming one, change to a channel
For all fire of all suns, the ecstasy of Creation:
And by no love of a sterile God in the heavens,
And by no love of a memory or an idol of the Past,

Lay your hand, sweet wife, in mine;
Half divine
Was the love of long ago.
Dawn's bright hues no longer glow,
And we watch, with fading sight,
Day turn night.

Sitting here at twilight's fall,
I recall
All our days of changing weather;
How we met black care together—
Fought him till he turned to fly,
You and I.

And the hours of glad content
We have spent!
Perfect love and perfect life,
We have run their round, sweet wife,
But of all those hours so blest,
This is best.

Ah! I know it, my darling,—but who can say nay to you?
Who can say nay to those eyes when they pray to you?
Who can say nay to those lips when they say to you—
“On a rose, on a glove, on a jewel I am thinking”?

Were we strong, were we wise, had but virtue the hold of us,
Were we cold to behold such a love's glance unblinking,
Were it aught but such stuff as it is, sweet, the mould of us—
Ah! then we might smile and beguile you with smiling,
Yea, then were we proof against all the beguiling,

Beautiful children of the woods and fields!
That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid the heather,
Or into clusters, 'neath the hazels, gather,—
Or where by hoary rocks you make your bields,
And sweetly flourish on through summer weather,—
I love ye all!

Beautiful flowers! to me ye fresher seem
From the Almighty hand that fashion'd all,
Than those that flourish by a garden-wall;
And I can image you as in a dream,
Fair modest maidens nursed in hamlets small:—
I love ye all!

Beautiful gems! that on the brow of earth

They stirred not, though the drench matted their hair,
And their two bodies streamed, cold and beaten.

He cried out: “I love you,”
But the words meant nothing.

“No,” she said, “it is not I you love! Not I!”

He was numb with despair.

“But you love me?” he faltered.

“Ah,” she said, “the heart must love, though it love but a dream:
But only a man shall win me.”

“And I,” he said, “am I no man?”

She was silent: he heard the rain on her lowered head …
And he knew himself for what he was.

I.

O'er the graveyard burning noonday poured its flood of stainless golden light;
In that hour the sun seemed victor over all the doubts and dreams of night.
II.

From the heavens of boundless azure, from the air superb with summer's breath,
Came, it seemed, a thrill of triumph, wide-winged triumph over wingless death
III.

Though the dead around lay silent, though a thousand souls had watched in vain,
Summer's heart of endless sweetness seemed to soothe man's heart of endless pain.
IV.

He repaired to the temple to make sacrifice:
For he loved God so that he had to give to him …

And he had but one thing to give that was precious to him,
The sword of his Mother.

“And this will I give,” he said, “though the blood of my heart goes with it.”

He came to the image in the inmost shrine,
And he loved the image …

He knelt and prayed to it …
“Father,” he prayed, “thy love enfolds me,
I am a child in thine arms:
Thou art with me day and night,
And where I go, thou followest,

When Cleomira disbelieves
Her shepherd, when he swears he lives
Or dies i' th' smiles or frowns she gives,

The echo mourns him to the plain,
And pity moves in ev'ry swain,
And makes the nymphs partake his pain.

But pity and the fair ones prove,
When Cleomira hates his love,
Like strange embraces to a dove.

For Cleomira's hate can turn
Fresh youth and beauty to an urn:
Death sure than it's much easier borne!

But Cleomira's love can bless,
And turn t' a grove a wilderness,

Dear! Dear!
As the night draws nigh draw near.
The world's forgotten;
Work is done;
The hour for loving
Is begun.

Sweet! Sweet!
It is love-time when we meet.
The hush of desire
Falls with the dew,
And all the evening
Turns to you.

Child! Child!
With the warm heart wise and wild.
My spirit trembles
Under your hand;
You look in my eyes
And understand.

Mine! Mine!
Mistress of mood divine.
What lore of the ages
Bids you know