love poetry

Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for its living,
And a child that's born on the Sabbath day
Is blithe and bonny and good and gay.

Light waits for us in heaven: Inspiring thought!
That when the darkness all is overpast,
The beauty which the Lamb of God has bought
Shall flow about our savéd souls at last,
And wrap them from all night-time and all woe:
The spirit and the word assure us so.

Love lives for us in heaven: Oh, not so sweet
Is the May dew which mountain flowers inclose
Nor golden raining of the winnowed wheat,
Nor blushing out of the brown earth, of rose,
Or whitest lily, as, beyond time's wars,
The silvery rising of these two twin stars!

Nitra, lovely Nitra,
Noble, lofty Nitra,
There was a time you bloom'd;
Oh, why have you been doom'd?

Look! I love no other,
Thou, my Slovak mother;
Behold—and pity me;
What tears I shed for thee!

You were the holy place
Which saw Saint Method's face;
He brought here God's own word,
That all our people heard.

Now greed and worldly lust
Have laid you in the dust;
That is the law of change;
To it the world must range.

First did I fear, when first my love began,
Possessed in fits by watchful jealousy;
I sought to keep what I by favor wan,
And brooked no partner in my love to be.
But tyrant sickness fed upon my love,
And spread his ensigns, dyed with color white;
Then was suspicion glad for to remove,
And, loving much, did fear to lose her quite.
Erect, fair sweet, the colors thou didst wear;
Dislodge thy griefs, the short'ners of content;
For now of life, not love, is all my fear,
Lest life and love be both together spent.

Where are the poems gone, of our first days?
Locked on the page
Where we for ever learn our first embrace.
Love come of age
Takes words as said, but never takes for granted
His holy luck, his pledge
That what is truly loved is truly known.
Now in that knowledge
Love unillusioned is not love disenchanted.

Love hath a name of Death:
He gives a breath
And takes away.
Lo we beneath his sway
Grow like a flower;
To bloom an hour,
To droop a day,
And fade away.

O Lord, when Thou didst call me, didst Thou know
My heart disheartened thro' and thro',
Still hankering after Egypt full in view
Where cucumbers and melons grow?
—“Yea, I knew.”—

But, Lord, when Thou didst choose me, didst Thou know
How marred I was and withered too,
Nor rose for sweetness nor for virtue rue,
Timid and rash, hasty and slow?
—“Yea, I knew.”—

My Lord, when Thou didst love me, didst Thou know
How weak my efforts were, how few,
Tepid to love and impotent to do,

The world was husht, the moon above
Sailed thro' ether slowly,
When near the casement of my love,
Thus I whispered lowly,—
“Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
“The field I seek to-morrow
“Is one where man hath fame to reap,
“And woman gleans but sorrow.”

“Let battle's field be what it may.”
Thus spoke a voice replying,
“Think not thy love, while thou'rt away,
“Will siThere idly sighing.
“No—woman's soul, if not for fame,
“For love can brave all danger!”
Then forth from out the casement came

By parental kindness sheltered,
Ne'er the little child had seen
One whose form of lifeless beauty
Wore Death's sad and solemn mien;
Till a youthful, loved companion
Soared to seek an angel's home,
And the little girl was lifted
To behold her lifeless form.

Then the child, no death-scene fearing,
Gazed upon the flowers around,
Wondering that from lips so lovely
Came no pleasant, wonted sound;
Bent she o'er the tiny coffin,—
Sunshine all her face abroad,—
Kissed the cheek of marble coldness,

A LONG the lane beside the mead
—Where cowslip-gold is in the grass
I matched the milkmaid's easy speed,
—A tall and springing country lass:
But though she had a merry plan
—To shield her from my soft replies,
Love played at Catch-me-if-you-Can
———In Mary's eyes.

A mile or twain from Varley bridge
—I plucked a dock-leaf for a fan,
And drove away the constant midge,
—And cooled her forehead's strip of tan.
But though the maiden would not spare
—My hand her pretty finger-tips,
Love played at Kiss-me-if-you-Dare