love poetry

I twine the silent mists within my hair
And mark the morning from the mountain-peak,
While round me the sonorous thunders speak
And strange light quivers through the thin pure air.
For thee, sweetheart, this valley-rose is fair,—
Fair as thine own soft slothful recreant cheek;
Thee the gay valley-sunshine loves to seek:
Thou wouldst not the steep flowerless high paths dare.

And yet I love thee! though thou art so far
Away from me, I love thee, sweetheart mine!
Far down the valley thy bright soul doth shine,

Not by standing at their graves and weeping
Win we audience of the ghostly throng:
Those we left beneath the green grass sleeping
Need not tears it may be, only song.

Not by ceaseless groans and bitter anguish
Shall we reach their hearts and bring them nigh:
Not by wringing idle hands that languish;
Not by watching starless wastes of sky.

Where the strong sun gilds the morning mountains,
Where the ceaseless crystal waters leap
Laughing from the depths of rainbow fountains,
There are those we left alone, asleep.

In other arms I found content. In yours
Only an infinite torment and unrest.
Always the chill surrender of your breast
Spurned me to madder quests, remoter lures.
Always I bore upon my soul the scars
Seared by the terrible magic of your kiss.
You were Circe … Helen … Semiramis,
Potent, austere, indifferent as the stars.

These bread-and-butter passions, cinnamon-sweet,
Have stayed my hunger for a little space.
Why must I blunder on reluctant feet
Back to the dead-sea fruit of your embrace?

Not of steep mountain trails or perilous ascents
Will I complain, but of the hard, hard ways of love!
Ice melting in far streams beats a refrain,
Snow on cold, distant peaks recalls your lineaments;
Loathing light songs, sick of spring wine,
I bid no guests to evening chess
Our vows were of the greenness of the pine,
of the rock's steadfastness;
Sometimes even the One-winged Birds remain too long as twain.
Hating to walk alone when winter sunsets fade,
Eager for meeting when the moon is full above,

When in the death of love,
The lovers part,
With saddened quiet in their eyes,
And brief low words,
They do not wonder at the autumn's dying,
Nor at the fall of leaves in the late wind,
Nor wooded hills in winter.

A sadness steeps the sky,
A greyness glistens in the air,
And the Earth's bosom is barren, bleak and brown …
When in the death of love
The lovers part.

O loved and lovely on the mountain crest,
O auburn hair the clouds are shining on,
White arms uplifted to the setting sun,
Prophetic eyes that see beyond the west,
O whispering voice, my tumult and my rest,
Star of the twilight next that burning one
Which yonder in heaven holds bright dominion,
Through song of mine shalt thou be manifest!

For from my wings thy fire hath purged the pain,
For on my eyes thy light hath poured the light,
And on my mouth is thine immortal kiss;
Nor can thy presence be bestowed in vain

If Love be nothing but an idle name,
A vain device of foolish Poets' skill:
A feigned fire, devoid of smoke and flame;
Then what is that which me tormenteth still?
If such a thing as love indeed there be,
What kind of thing, or which, or where is he?

If it be good, how causeth it such pain?
How doth it breed such grief within my breast?
If nought, how chance the grief that I sustain
Doth seem so sweet amidst my great unrest?
For sure, methinks it is a wondrous thing,
That so great pain should so great pleasure bring.

Love is a sour delight, a sugared grief,
A living death, an ever-dying life,
A breach of reason's law, a secret thief,
A sea of tears, an everlasting strife:
A bait for fools, a scourge of noble wits,
A deadly wound, a shot that ever hits.

Love is a blinded god, a wayward boy,
A labyrinth of doubts, an idle lust;
A slave to beauty's will, a witless toy,
A ravenous bird, a tyrant most unjust:
A burning heat in frost, a flattering foe,
A private hell, a very world of woe.

Yet, mighty Love, regard not what I say,

Must my devoted heart desist to love her?
No: love I may, but I may not confess it.
What harder thing than love, and yet depress it?
Love most concealed, doth most itself discover.
Had I no pen to show that I approve her;
Were I tongue-tied, that I might not address it,
In plaints and prayers unfeigned to express it,
Yet could I not my deep affection cover.
Had I no pen, my very tears would shew it,
Which write my true affection in my face.
Were I tongue-tied, my sighs would make her know it,

The lovely Delia smiles again!
That killing frown has left her brow;
Can she forgive my jealous pain,
And give me back my angry vow?

Love is an April's doubtful day;
Awhile we see the tempest lower,
Anon the radiant heaven survey,
And quite forget the flitting shower

The flowers, that hung their languid head,
Are burnish'd by the transient rains;
The vines their wonted tendrils spread,
And double verdure gilds the plains.

The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less
Beneath the power of rain and wind,