love poetry

O Mind, drink deep of the wine of Hari's love.
Why follow after the wine of worldly pleasures? O fool, beware of these.

To the six draughts is due the bondage of desires: and these thou holdest good,

Beside the immortal wine of Hari's love, these are altogether tasteless.

The minds of sants are bees of Hari's nectar, ever inebriate with it.

Taste thou also of this nectar, filling thy vessel to the brim.
The one immortal draught is Hari's immortal love: all other immortalities are false.

What makes thee thus my hand to press,
With such an ardent fold;
What makes thee stop and sigh and blush,
Ere half thy tale be told?
Why do thy eyes, when fix'd on mine,
Such sweet sensations prove;
Then roll in softness, as they'd weep?—
It surely must be love.

Why does that wanton hand of thine,
Thus wander o'er my breast?
The little trembler that's within,
Thou marrest of its rest.
The silent language of thy sighs,
Me, too, to sigh doth move;
Yet still you press me to your breast,

Rouse to defend the land ye love,
Ye stalwart men and brave;
O'er all its breadth, from sea to sea,
Bid Freedom's banner wave.

They heard, they stood, in serried ranks
They marched at Freedom's call;
One hope beat high in every heart,
One thought inspired them all.

Deep in the furrow where it sank,
The plough, ungeared, stood still,
While broader plans and loftier aims,
Waited the freemen's will.

So Cincinnatus bravely led
His Roman soldiers, true;
So, fearless, trod through fields of blood

Jesus, Lord God from all eternity,
Whom love of us brought down to shame,
I plead Thy Life with Thee,
I plead Thy Death, I plead Thy Name.

Jesus, Lord God of every living soul,
Thy Love exceeds its uttered fame,
Thy Will can make us whole,
I plead Thyself, I plead Thy Name.

Oh the old moon will rise not yet;
'T is a weary, weary old moon
And late, late up; but we will not fret,
The new moon will shine for us soon.

And, “where is the new moon,” pet?
“And where does the old moon go?”
They never are parted, they never met,
But each from the other they grow.

In her bosom the old moon yet
The new moon shelters and warms,
And the fair young moon—she will not forget
But rise with the old in her arms!

A tap of your finger on the drum releases all sounds and initiates the new harmony.
A step of yours is the conscription of the new men and their marching orders.
You look away: the new love!
You look back,—the new love!
“Change our fates, shoot down the plagues, beginning with time,” the children sing to you. “Build wherever you can the substance of our fortunes and our wishes,” they beg you.
Arriving from always, you’ll go away everywhere.

Mine eye, mine ear, my will, my wit, my heart,
Did see, did hear, did like, discern, did love,
Her face, her speech, her fashion, judgment, art,
Which did charme, please, delight, confound and move.
Then fancy, humour, love, conceit and thought,
Did so draw, force, intice, persuade, devise,
That she was won, moved, carried, compassed, wrought,
To think me kind, true, comely, valiant, wise,
That heaven, earth, hell, my folly and her pride,
Did work, contrive, labour, conspire and swear,
To make me scorn'd, vile, cast off, base, defied,

The lover under burthen of his love--
Which like to Etna did his heart oppress--
Did give such piteous groans, that he did move
The heavens at length to pity his distress:
But for the fates in their high court above
Forbade to make the grievous burthen less,
The gracious powers did all conspire to prove
If miracle this mischief might redress.
Therefore, regarding that the load was such
As no man might with one man's might sustain,
And that mild patïence imported much
To him that should endure an endless pain,

Frown on, ye dark and angry clouds;
And, Winter, blow that blast again,
That calls thy wrathful host to pour
Their fury on the wasted plain.

'Tis thus I choose my way to win
To her whose love my bosom warms;
And brighter seems the prize I seek
Seen through the gloom of clouds and storms.

Let colder lovers shrink from these,
And calmly wait for peaceful skies;
Be mine, through toil and pain to win
The beam of Mary's gladdened eyes.

Perhaps she'll value more my love,
Perhaps give more of her's to me,

How shall I guard my soul so that it be
Touched not by thine? And how shall it be brought,
Lifted above thee, unto other things?
Ah, gladly would I hide it utterly
Lost in the dark where are no murmurings,
In strange and silent places that do not
Vibrate when thy deep soul quivers and sings.
But all that touches us two makes us twin,
Even as the bow crossing the violin
Draws but one voice from the two strings that meet.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what great player has us in his hand?
O song most sweet.