love poetry

A MAÏD wi' many gifts o' greäce,
A maïd wi' ever-smilèn feäce,
A child o' yours my chilhood's pleäce,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen;
'S a-walkèn where your stream do flow,
A-blushèn where your flowers do blow,
A-smilèn where your zun do glow,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen.
An' good, however good's a-waïgh'd,
'S the lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.

An' oh! if I could teäme an' guide
The winds above the e'th, an' ride
As light as shootèn stars do glide,
O leänèn lawns ov Allen,
To you I'd teäke my daily flight,

Spring comes again but the one who loved spring is no more.
Flowers fall, flowers open, and he feels his fate more.
Material is void; void, material.
In all this he sees her apparition cannot be real.

Thou hast made many Houses for the Dead;
When my Lot calls me to be buried,
For Love or Pittie, prethee let there be
I'th'Church-yard, made, one Tenement for me.

Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us—
Youth may wither, but feeling will last;
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us
Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast.
Oh, if to love thee more
Each hour I number o'er—
If this a passion be
Worthy of thee,
Then be happy, for thus I adore thee.
Charms may wither, but feeling shall last:
All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.
Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee,
Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal;

O ruthless, perilous, imperious hate,
you can not thwart
the promptings of my soul,
you can not weaken nay nor dominate
Love that is mateless,
Love the rite,
the whole measure of being:
would you crush with bondage?
nay, you would love me not
were I your slave.

O love, how utterly am I bereaved
By Time, who sucks the honey of our days,
Sets sickle to our Aprils, and betrays
To killing winter all the sun achieved!
Our parted spirits are perplexed and grieved
Severed by cold, and change that never stays;
And what the clock, and what the season says
Is rumour neither valued nor believed.

Thus absence chills us to apparent death
And withers up our virtue, but together
We grow beyond vagaries of the weather
And make a summer of our mingled breath

My thoughts thou hast supported without rest,
My tyred body here hath laine opprest
With love, and feare: yet be thou ever blest;
Spring, prosper, last; I am alone unblest.

If thou wouldst be a master, learn the way:
Little thou knowest of that sacred joy,
Which haunts the deep of night, and fills the day,
And makes a warrior of a dreaming boy.

To love the austerity of sea and stars:
To love the multitudes of mighty towns:
To love the hardness of thy prison bars:
This must thou know, or lose the eternal crowns.

Bear to be last, though the world's fools were first;
Endure the wealth and wage, thy service brings:
Wages enough, heart's hunger and soul's thirst,

Love's a flower, 'tis born and broken,
Plucked apace, and hugged apart;
Evening comes, it clings—poor token—
Dead and dry, on lover's heart.

Love's the rhyme of a summer minute
Woven close like hum of flies;
Sob of wind, and meaning in it
Dies away, as summer dies.

Love's a shimmery morning bubble
Puffed all gay from pipe of noon;
Spun aloft on breath of trouble—
Bursts in air—is gone—too soon!

As many songs of love there are
As green leaves in Asummer wood,
While yet the autumn is afar
And the swift rains are good.

And some leaves fall in any storm
And some dance lightly East and West;
But some—ah, some cling soft and warm
About a nest.