poems about love

No mother owns a son. — Their lives are drawn
Together for a time. O'er valley and lawn
Of this our earth they pass.
But as they older grow, their spheres divide:
One seeks by choice the ice-blue mountain-side:
The other loves the daisied sunlit grass.

Many have lived before. Christ had derived
From many a star wherein his soul had lived
Soul-learning, lessons high:
Perhaps had suffered for another race;
Others perhaps had loved the royal face;
Another cross perhaps had seen him die.

And in that desert of void endless thought,
Like a white shining flower my love shall be;
A flower to bloom round and encourage me,
With tender petals marvellously wrought.
This gift, far rarer than all gifts I sought,
Shall be mine own: its utter purity
Shall make that desert like some grassy sea,
With lilies 'twixt the grass-blades twined and caught.

This one sweet flower amid the desert sands
Of hard fierce thought, a silver bloom, expands,
In token that one woman did not fear,

Why do you love me? — He . —
— For your coal-black hair
â?ƒThat brings before my eyes the passionate South:
Because, although my lips in song despair,
â?ƒHope thrills them at the touching of your mouth.
Because, when life was weary and at an end,
â?ƒLike the bright soul of very Spring you came,
Sister and love, a sweetheart in a friend,
â?ƒAnd fanned with girlish breath joy's flickering flame
And so I love you. — She . —
— Will your love abide
â?ƒStedfast and faithful, since we cannot be

When womanhood is loved by manhood with the tender
Love wherewith I love thee, when manhood's heart can render
Homage to her like this,
The world will be redeemed. When woman's soul can fashion
In the deep heart of man a stainless worldwide passion,
Evil will flee before their stainless kiss.

This waits,—that every heart of woman win the power
To be to some one man his pure immortal flower,
His holiest pride and bliss
When womanhood is loved, as I love thee, the yearning

At times my songs of love return and shine
Each as a flower of individual head,
Some white, some rosy, — some blood-stained and red, —
Marshalled in one long unimpeded line.
And these, with many tears and thoughts, I twine
To bloom about that fragrant body dead,
That over her mixed petals may be shed,
And spices and sweet incense I combine
To make her beauty more surpassing yet; —
And many months of passion, and pale days,
And nights torn in unutterable ways,
Are as strange flowers with rain of weeping wet, —

There are strong powers of love that early years
Know little of. — All added force of being
Gives love new deeper tenderer eyes for seeing,
And love wins sweetness from a lifetime's tears.
All pangs and hopes and joys and trembling fears
Add strength to love. As life's black darkness grows
Love's firmer step through that murk darkness goes
And, dauntless, over the grave's brink Love peers.

There are strange powers of love that youthful days
Know little of. There is a love beside

Through years on years a man dreamed dreams on dreams
Of love. — The flowers of every spring were fair,
And love-thoughts glistened through the summer air
And mingled with the lilies on the streams
And wove gold circlets from the starry beams: —
Slow step by step Love's marble palace-stair
The man climbed, and it rang with laughter rare,
And sweet eyes met his own with answering gleams.

At last he reached the central palace-room,
And lo! a woman's form he there descried.
She rose to meet him. In that fragrant gloom,

No friend shall follow and face the burning glare
Of thought, in those fierce realms towards which I lead:
No lesser love shall triumph, or succeed
In breathing that divine sun-stricken air.
Yet well and tenderly my sweet shall fare; —
She shall not thirst, — her white foot shall not bleed, —
She shall not pant for brook or flowery mead:
Love is enough, — and Love's fount shall be there.

Love's silver waters tender and divine
Shall spring around us at this staff of mine, —
The stroke of this my living staff of song:

A tuft of mignonette, a withered rose!
Numberless foolish hearts have treasured such.
Now, as I lift them from their long repose,
They turn to dust and crumble at a touch —
Poor flowers that meant so much!

They meant — pure love and limitless belief
In summer's faithfulness, in sunny skies:
They mean — one lonely pang of silent grief,
Just one true tear that in a moment dries,
For even sorrow dies.

So with the millions who have hoarded flowers:
The frail love-token lasts, the heart's love goes.

The true possession is the holy sense
Of love and of ecstatic victory.
Such true possession, love, was given to me:—
A glory of triumph tenderly intense.
A passion without envy or offence
Was mine,—and that clear passion's blest reward
Was the achievement of a golden sword
That severed all the barriers dark and dense.

One night when thou wast reading of my love,
My yearning drew thee,—and thy spirit came,
Like a white-winged and golden-crested dove,
With plumage touched by passion as by flame: