love poetry

My love, my wife, three months ago
I joined the fight in London town.
I haven't conquered yet, you know,
And friends are few, and hope is low;
Far off I see the shining crown.

I'm daunted, dear; but blow on blow
With ebbing force I strike, and so
I am not felled and trodden down,
My love, my wife!

I wonder when the tide will flow,
Sir Oracle cease saying “No,”
And Fortune smile away her frown.
Well, while I swim I cannot drown;
And while we sleep the harvests grow,
My love, my wife.

A placid lake dreamed the dull days away
In Scotland's leafy heart, the wild deer's home,
Yet never knew the ecstasy of foam,
The curl of waves, or the grim tempest's sway.

But storms encompassed it one fatal day,
The snaky lightnings o'er its bank did roam,
And to its sheltering snow-girt cedars clomb,
Stirring the blue depths in wild disarray.

Like that calm lake, my heart serenely dreamed,
Unconscious of alarm, until you came,
Leading Love with you, vigorous and free;

L OVE'S torments sought a place of rest,
Where all might drear and lonely be;
They found ere long my desert breast,
And nestled in its vacancy.

When chinks in April's windy dome
Let through a day of June,
And foot and thought incline to roam,
And every sound 's a tune;
When Nature fills a fuller cup,
And hides with green the gray,—
Then, lover, pluck your courage up
To try your fate in May.

Though proud she was as sunset clad
In Autumn's fruity shades,
Love too is proud, and brings (gay lad!)
Humility to maids.
Scorn not from nature's mood to learn,
Take counsel of the day:
Since haughty skies to tender turn,
Go try your fate in May.

Life is not dear or gay
—Till lovers kiss it,
Love stole my life away
—Ere I might miss it.
In sober March I vowed
—I'd have no lover,
Love laid me in my shroud
—Ere June was over.

I felt his body take
—My body to it,
And knew my heart would break
—Ere I should rue it;
June roses are not sad
—When dew-drops steep them,
My moments were so glad
—I could not keep them.

Proud was I love had made
—Desire to fill me,
I shut my eyes and prayed
—That he might kill me.

This dainty shawl an Eastern shuttle wove,
Where Ravee stream winds sunward from Cashmere;
By nimble gold 'twas borne around the sphere
For one who gave it me in friendly love.
To rival nature's hues the weaver strove,
For beauty's sake and not barbaric show;
Behold, commingled here, elusive glow
The brilliant, innocent dyes of field and grove.
This silk-soft web was never merchandise;
A charm of peerless art proclaims it rare,—
A sumptuous robe that Majesty would prize,
And India's British Empress well might wear;

When on the altar of my hand,
Bedew'd with many a kiss and tear,
Thy now revolted heart did stand
An humble martyr, thou didst swear
Thus (and the god of love did hear):
“By those bright glances of thine eye,
Unless thou pity me, I die.”

When first those perjured lips of thine,
Be-paled with blasting sighs, did seal
Their violated faith on mine,
From the soft bosom that did heal
Thee, thou my melting heart didst steal:
My soul, inflamed with thy false breath,
Poison'd with kisses, suck'd in death.

If one would make a bid for love.
Let him renounce his heart's desire and offer his head a sacrifice.
Let him desert the way of actions, and seek to know his self's true state.
Ever before him is Love's cup, joyfully he tastes' its sweetness.
The soul in Hari, He in the soul. He it is who speaks this word.
He is in all, we all in Him: but few are they who understand it.
That Jiva's state, who is wholly true, who can know?
Gulal declares them united with the Name: this let none forget.

Give place all ye that doth rejoice,
And love's pangs hath clean forgot.
Let them draw near and hear my voice
Whom Love doth force in pains to fret,
For all of plaint my song is set,
Which long hath served and nought can get.

A faithful heart so truly meant
Rewarded is full slenderly;
A steadfast faith with good intent
Is recompensèd craftily;
Such hap doth hap unhappily
To them that mean but honestly.

With humble suit I have assay'd
To turn her cruel-hearted mind,
But for reward I am delay'd,

O PATIENT God, whom men forsake,
All-kind, all-gracious as Thou art,
How soon our faithlessness would break
A human heart!

How vast must be the Love so strong,
Its yearning, oh, how fathomless,
That sin prolonged should yet prolong
Thy tenderness!

Though we may slight that Love with doubt,
Thy paths of sweet commandment spurn,
Thou wilt in no wise cast him out
Who would return!

The uttermost Thy Love doth reach;
And oh the pathos of its cry
All humbled to our human speech,—