love poetry

Alack, for the Loved One left us In sorrow and pain and went;
Like smoke on the top of the furnace She caused us remain and went.

She gave not a cup to the cropsick Of Love's mirth-kindling wine,
But caused us to taste of the bitter Of sev'rance's bane and went.

When once I was fallen her booty, Me wounded and sick at heart
In the sea of chagrin she abandoned, Her steed gave the rein and went.

“By practice”, quoth I, “I may bring her In bonds.” But at me she took fright,

“And love will stay, a summer's day!”
A long wave rippled up the strand,
She flashed a white hand through the spray
And plucked a sea-shell from the sand;
And laughed—“O doubting heart, have peace!
When faith of mine shall fail to thee
This fond, remembering shell will cease
To sing its love, the sea.”

Ah well, sweet summer's past and gone—
And love, perchance, shuns wintry weather—
And so the pretty dears are flown
On lightsome, careless wings together.
I smile: this little pearly-lined,

Woman! thoughtless, giddy creature,
Laughing, idle, flutt'ring thing:
Most uncertain work of nature,
Still, like fancy, on the wing.

Slave to ev'ry changing passion,
Loving, hating, in extreme:
Fond of ev'ry foolish fashion,
And, at best, a pleasing dream.

Lovely-trifle! dear-illusion!
Conquering-weakness! wished-for-pain!
Man's chief glory and confusion,
Of all vanity most vain!

Thus, deriding beauty's power,
Bevil called it all a cheat;
But in less than half an hour

Still abide the heaven-born three,
Faith, and Hope, and Charity!
Faith—to point out our heavenly goal,
Hope—an anchor to the soul:
Faith and Hope must pass away;
Charity endure for aye!

Hope must in possession die;
Faith—in blissful certainty:
These to gladden each were given;
Love, or Charity—for heaven!
For, in brighter realms above,
Charity survives—as Love.

Love to Him, the great I AM!
Love to Him, the atoning Lamb!
Love unto the Holy Ghost!
Love to all the heavenly host!

In the dim watches of the midmost night,
A ghost confronts him, standing by his bed,
A lonesome ghost who walks uncomforted,
Pale child of Memory and dead Delight,
No longer fair or pleasant in his sight.
With dusky hair upon her shoulders shed,
And cypress leaves for garland on her head,
As patient as the moonlight and as white,
She stands beside him, and puts forth her hand
To lead him backward into Love's lost Land—
Sad Land which shadows people, and where wait
Memory, her sire, and dead Delight, his mate—

I said, “If I come to thee, wilt thou greet me with a kiss?”
Said she, “Hast thou a thousand heads that thou askest this of me?”
I said, “Thy raven tresses are like so many black cobras.”
Said she, “Why trust thyself within the cobra's reach?”
I said, “In what fashion then shall I approach thee?”
Said she, “Without sword can head parted be from body?”
I said, “I ever wander in distraction in thy search!”
Said she, “Wise art thou, why then thus disgrace thyself?”
I said, “But for a moment let us two be happy together.”

Scarred with sensuality and pain
And weary labor in a mind not hard
Enough to think, a heart too always tender,
Sits the Christ of failure with his lovers.
They are wiser than his parables,
But he more potent, for he has the gift
Of hopelessness, and want of faith, and love.

Beyond the north wind lay the land of old
Where men dwelt blithe and blameless, clothed and fed
With joy's bright raiment and with love's sweet bread,
The whitest flock of earth's maternal fold.
None there might wear about his brows enrolled
A light of lovelier fame than rings your head,
Whose lovesome love of children and the dead
All men give thanks for: I far off behold
A dear dead hand that links us, and a light
The blithest and benignest of the night,
The night of death's sweet sleep, wherein may be

Flowers hast thou in thyself, and foliage,
And what is good, and what is glad to see;
The sun is not so bright as thy visàge;
All is stark naught when one hath looked on thee;
There is not such a beautiful personage
Anywhere on the green earth verily;
If one fear love, thy bearing sweet and sage
Comforteth him, and no more fear hath he.
Thy lady friends and maidens ministering
Are all, for love of thee, much to my taste:
And much I pray them that in everything
They honour thee even as thou meritest,

Oh ! I vu'st know'd o' my true love,
As the bright moon up above,
Though her brightness wer my pleasure,
She wer heedless o' my love.
Tho' 'twer all gaÿ to my eyes,
Where her feäir feäce did arise,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the high moon in the skies.

Oh! I vu'st heärd her a-zingèn,
As a sweet bird on a tree,
Though her zingèn wer my pleasure,
'Twer noo zong she zung to me.
Though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh,
Meäde my wild heart to beat high,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,