love poetry

If Aaron's sons, who so profanely came
Up to the altar with unhallowed flame,
Were justly by avenging fire consum'd,
Who with strange fire to tempt their God presum'd;
What flames are due to their more daring crimes,
Who rob his altar to enrich their rhimes?
Steal holy fire, then to an idol turn,
And incense to it most profanely burn;
Offer love's noblest flame, by heaven inspir'd,
By heaven alone deserv'd, by heaven desir'd,
To some vile heap of flesh and blood, that must
In a few moments turn to worms and dust!

The Lord in heav'n has fix'd his throne,
His eye surveys the world below;
To him all mortal things are known,
His eye-lids search our spirits through.

If he afflict his saints so far,
To prove their love, and try their grace;
What must the bold transgressors fear?
His very soul abhors their ways.

On impious wretches he shall rain
Tempests of brimstone, fire and death,
Such as he kindled on the plain
Of Sodom, with his angry breath.

The righteous Lord loves righteous souls,

Oh swell my bosom deeper with thy love,
That I some river's widening mouth may be;
And ever on for many a mile above
May flow the floods that enter from thy sea;
And may they not retreat as tides of earth,
Save but to show from Thee that they have flown,
Soon may my spirit find that better birth,
Where the retiring wave is never known;
But Thou dost flow through every channel wide,
With all a Father's love in every soul;
A stream that knows no ebb, a swelling tide
That rolls forever on and finds no goal,

In London far from grass or tree
Our love took form;
Far-off from wild song of the sea
In storm.

Not where the forest's silent bride,
The white moon, dreams,
Nor where the iris glows beside
The streams:

Not by green bank or scented mound,
By burn or mere,
My sad eyes caught thy glance and found
Thee dear.

In London, city of ceaseless gloom,
Grim sunless place,
I found one girlish flower in bloom,—
Thy face.

In London, where no stars are seen,
For all light dies,

There are three pines about the door,
No bird will light in save the crow,
Or the chill-hearted monkish owl,
Whose eyes peer out beneath his cowl.

Ascetic through the silent night
He keeps it; while the scornful crow
Its desolation keeps by day—
Its gloom … where passion once held sway.

And blood-guilt is the cause men give
Of its forsakenness and rack:
Love here once cut its own white throat;
And Nature thus has taken note.

And yet for no unfaithfulness
Or perfidy did the two die.

I love you for your brownness
And the rounded darkness of your breast.
I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice
And shadows where your wayward eye-lids rest.

Something of old forgotten queens
Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk
And something of the shackled slave
Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.

Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow's mate,
Keep all you have of queenliness,
Forgetting that you once were slave,
And let your full lips laugh at Fate!

Jesu, thy love within me is so main,
And my poor heart so narrow of content,
That with thy love my heart wellnigh is rent,
And yet I love to bear such loving pain.
O take thy Cross and nails and therewith strain
My heart's desire unto his full extent,
That thy dear love may not therein be pent,
But thoughts may have free scope thy love to explain.
O now my heart more paineth than before,
Because it can receive and hath no more.
O fill this emptiness or else I die.
Now stretch my heart again and now supply;

These are the little things that stir the heart,
Awaken memories of the yester-years,
Arouse old sorrows with a painful dart,
Becloud the brow and flood the eyes with tears,
Soft, soothing hands that weave love's ancient charm,
And softer voice that croons love's roundelay,
Firm, rounded breasts that crown thy slender form,
Dark, wistful eyes deep with the joy of day.
All but the vision of thy loveliness
That dwells within my heart and will not down,
All must I give for fate is merciless
And garbs my youth in age's sable gown.

Why should I sing when every living voice
Carols in joy for my love's holiday?
Why should I laugh when all the skies rejoice,
Blue-girt and silvered in each sun-kissed ray?
Yea, though the skies, the earth, each God-sent thing,
In flowering field, or glen, or deep-set moor,
Croon softly each to each, still shall I sing,
Tho weak the chords or be the accents poor.
These shall I bring for my love's golden fare,
These shall I give as down my days she trips—
Song-burthened zephyrs for her wind-blown hair,

“What of the old love?” cries my heart to me;
Ah let it die, I say; ah let it die.
Burdened it was with love's satiety,
Weep for it, heart, and give it sigh for sigh.
Keep but its purity to give the new,
Shed all the dross its sorrowed years had borne;
Keep but its joy to cheer the journey thru,
Dry all the tears that cloud my new love's morn.
Give me the passion that the old love brought,
Add to the measure of my new love's fire;
Give me the laughter that the old love wrought,
Add to the wealth of my new love's desire.