poems about love

I

Serene and beautiful and very wise,
Most erudite in curious Grecian lore,
You lay and read your learned books, and bore
A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs.
The song within your heart could never rise
Until love bade it spread its wings and soar.
Nor could you look on Beauty's face before
A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes.

Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder;
Love is a poignant and accustomed pain.
It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder;
It is a linnet's fluting after rain.

(For Aline)



Monsignore,
Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,
Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,
I respectfully salute you,
I genuflect
And I kiss your episcopal ring.

It is not, Monsignore,
The fragrant memory of your holy life,
Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,
Which causes me now to address you.
But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,
It seems appropriate to me to state

(WHEN THEIR MINIATURES WERE HANGING SIDE BY SIDE.)

In truth, when I have crossed dark Lethe's river,
The man upon the right I'll love forever,
For 'twas he first that wrote for me.
For all the world the left man wrote, full clearly,
And so we all should love him dearly;
Come, left man! I must needs kiss thee!

The old well of Saint John, in the parish of Newton-Nottage,
Glamorganshire, has a tide of its own, which appears to run exactly
counter to that of the sea, some half-mile away. The water is
beautifully bright and fresh, and the quaint dome among the lonely
sands is regarded with some awe and reverence.

He

"THERE is plenty of room for two in here,
Within the steep tunnel of old grey stone;
And the well is so dark, and the spring so clear,
It is quite unsafe to go down alone."

She

Thou who hast follow'd far with eyes of love
The shy and virgin sights of Spring to-day,
Sad soul, what dost thou in this happy grove?
Hast thou no pipe to touch, no strain to play,
Where Nature smiles so fair and seems to ask a lay?

Ah! she needs none! she is too beautiful.
How should I sing her? for my heart would tire,
Seeking a lovelier verse each time to cull,
In striving still to pitch my music higher:
Lovelier than any muse is she who gives the fire!

No impulse I beseech; my strains are vile:

I cannot look upon thy grave,
Though there the rose is sweet:
Better to hear the long wave wash
These wastes about my feet!

Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live
A spirit, though afar,
With a deep hush about thee, like
The stillness round a star?

Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere
Thou art a thing apart,
Losing in saner happiness
This madness of the heart.

And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel
A passing breath, a pain;
Disturb'd, as though a door in heaven

Perhaps no spot upon this sphere,
Has charms for me more sacred, dear,
Than those of old Poundridge;
I love her hills, her lakes, her streams,
Her rural haunts, where Nature teems
With joys naught can abridge.

Her dew-bespangled meadows shine
With gems of radiance so divine,
When touched by matin sun,
That myriad pendant drops of dew,
Lend to the mead a brilliant hue
Like earth with diamonds strown.

The woods that sleep on distant hills,
Or watch o'er gently murmuring rills,

Nine months after writing this poem, my mother died, Dec. 21st, 1894.


My vision eye beholds a form,
Bent low by years of life's fierce storm,
That moves with feeble tread;
Though time has worn that weary frame
The heart still keeps its sacred flame
True, undiminished.

No power but Death can ever quell--
No mortal tongue can ever tell
A mother's boundless love;
'Tis shadowed in the secret sigh,
Or in the moisture of the eye--
E'en silence, it may prove.

I love to spend the twilight hour
When stars their radiance o'er me cast,
With that benign mysterious power
Which calls up mem'ries of the past,
And brings anew the scenes of yore,
Like sacred perfume from some shrine
Whose hallowed influence ever more
Proves life and love of birth divine.
Sweet twilight hour! sweet twilight hour!
How blissful is thy magic power,
At thy return new strength is given
To lead me to the gates of heaven.

I love at such an hour as this

[Written after reading Shakespeare's sonnet commencing, "Love is not
Love which alters when it alterations finds."]


Love is a sort of cannibal
And lives upon its kind,
It dares all dangers, fears no foes
And to the world is blind,
While faithful heart unswerving beats,
Or pines in forced retreat;
It deems all tortures fate may send
Are perfumed with the sweet
Aroma of implicit faith,
Born of a kindred soul
That to the outer things of life