love poetry

I sing of a woman and summer
Of hot days within my limbs
July of months and blazing woman
Who comes before me, burning, burning
Whose eyes stir sulfer seas inside
To collide with the shores of silence.
I sing of a woman and summer
The woman loves another:
I burn as a lonely taper
In blackest night.

Where the beach is flat and flowing,
Wavelets coming, wavelets going,
There the small Mer-children play,
In silver night, in golden day,—
They need never go away.

As we love the sight of ocean,
Sound and color, light and motion,
All mer-children, understand,
Love the stretches of warm sand—
Dearly love to play on land.

As each earth-born son and daughter
Loves the feeling of the water,
Rippling, rolling, here and there,
Over small feet brown and bare—
So the Mer-child loves the air.

Those who have known the Love of Hari's Name, for their house have now no care.
Ever they revered the Sadhus and made their abode in the vault of heaven.
In splendour they live and measureless light: the noose of pitiless Jama is cut.
Bulla proclaims his inmost thought: free from Niranjan's bonds review the show.

When shall the mocking world withhold its blame,
When shall men cease to darken thus my name,
Calling the love which is my pride, my shame!

O Judge, let me my condemnation see;
Whose names are written on my death decree?—
The names of all who have been friends to me.

What hope to reach the Well-Belovéd's door,
The dear lost dwelling that I knew of yore;
I stumbled once; I can return no more.

The joy of love no heart can feel alone,
The fire of love at first unseen, unknown,

Lids closed and pale with parted lips she lay.
Black on white pillows spread her hair unbound.
Awake, I watched her sleeping face and found
Its beauty perfect in the breaking day.

Ah then I knew that Love had passed away,
Alas! though with the entering sun that crowned
With light the beauty that mine arms enwound
Came too the morning music of the bay.

I wept that Love had been and was no more,
That never shower nor sunlight should restore
The beauty that was dead thenceforth to me,

How can I wait till these long days are past
Before I rest my eyes on thy dear face!
Where art thou, love? O I would follow fast
If but some power would guide me to the place!
Canst thou not tell me by some spirit's grace?
For surely there are spirits, as of old,
Who joy love's glowing message to unfold

Speak but my name, and the kind breeze will bear
The sweet sound, like a perfume, through the space;
And I shall wander forth, knowing not where,
But surely shall I come unto the place

Oh, where's the maid that I can love,
With love which I have never told?
Where is the one that I would like
To comfort me when I am old?

Do I not see before my face,
A mate prepared for every one?
Then sure there's one prepared for me,
Nor need I trudge the road alone.

Now who is he that speaks to me
Of Mormons and of Mormonhood?
While this you know, the Lord has said,
They twain shall be one flesh, one blood!

Come listen, then, to what I say
Before this evening's work is done,

What mightie motione so my mynd mischeivis?
What uncouth cairs throu all my corps do creep?
What restles rage my Resone so bereivis?
What maks me loth of meit, of drink, of sleep?
I knou not nou what Countenance to keep
For to expell a poysone that I prove
Alace, alace that evir I leirnd to love.

A frentick fevir thrugh my flesh I feill,
I feill a passione can not be exprest.
I feill a byll within my bosum beill
No Cataplasme can weill impesh that pest.
I feill my self with seiknes so possest

While earth was sleeping in the opal dawn
She dreamed of beauty, for a presence bright
Laid on her breast a rose, but in the light
She wakened and her angel guest had gone.

Then softly o'er her senses like a prayer,
A perfume drifted, known in Paradise,
An incense of Love's holiest sacrifice—
An evanescent fragrance, rich and rare.

O Loveliness, too soon to disappear,
The wildering grace that wraps the rose's heart
Is still the ultimate despair of art—
A pearl that, vanishing, leaves but a tear.

I LOVE to see at early morn,
The Squirrel sit before my door;
There crack his nuts and hide his shells,
And skip away to seek for more.

I love in hedge-row paths to see
The Linnet glance from spray to spray;
Or mark at evening's balmy close,
The Redbreast hop across my way.

For sure when Nature's free-born train
Approach with song and gambol near,
Some secret impulse bids them feel
The footsteps of a friend are there.

I LOVE to see at early morn,
The Squirrel sit before my door;