romantic poems

It singeth low in every heart,
We hear it each and all,--
A song of those who answer not,
However we may call;
They throng the silence of the breast,
We see them as of yore,--
The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet,
Who walk with us no more.

'Tis hard to take the burden up,
When these have laid it down;
They brightened all the joy of life,
They softened every frown;
But oh, 'tis good to think of them,
When we are troubled sore!
Thanks be to God that such have been,
Although they are no more!

It is my joy in life to find
At every turning of the road,
The strong arm of a comrade kind
To help me onward with my load.

And since I have no gold to give,
And love alone must make amends,
My only prayer is, while I live, —
God make me worthy of my friends!

It is Isis the mystery
Must be in love with me.

Here this round ball of earth
Where all the mountains sit
Solemn in groups,
And the bright rivers flit
Round them for girth.

Here the trees and troops
Darken the shining grass,
And many people pass
Plundered from heaven,
Many bright people pass,
Plunder from heaven.

What of the mistresses,
What the beloved seven?
— They were but witnesses,
I was just driven.

Where is there peace for me?
Isis the mystery

Is love, then, so simple, my dear?
The opening of a door,
And seeing all things clear?
I did not know before.

I had thought it unrest and desire
Soaring only to fall,
Annihilation and fire:
It is not so at all.

I feel no desperate will,
But I think I understand
Many things, as Isit quite still,
With Eternity in my hand.

IS IT a sin to love thee? Then my soul is deeply dyed,
For my lifeblood, as it gushes, takes its crimson from love's tide;
And I feel its waves roll o'er me and the blushes mount my brow
And my pulses quicken wildly, as the love dreams come and go:
I feel my spirit's weakness; I know my spirit's power;
I have felt my proud heart struggle in temptation's trying hour;
Yet, amid the din of conflict, bending o'er life's hallowed shrine,
Yielding all, my soul had murmured, I am thine, forever thine!

In your quest or request God is remote.
Yet He alone can be your anchor and your space,
the pulse and the parts,
the vine and the separation.

If God were a man, I would touch His robe
and burn into Him.
If He were a man, I would kiss His feet
and kneel or lie before Him.
I would cry, bleed, die ...
But He is not a man,
not a body.

You yourself are God because He made you,
classified you, gifted you and sailed within you.
You yourself are God because He sees you,
knows you, speaks to you,

In times like these, when widows, orphans weep,
When Gallia's helpless sons in exile roam,
Wide spreads the civil flame with threatening sweep,
And every Briton trembles for his home;
While fury kindles in plebeian minds,
With frenzy stung to gnaw and rend their chain,
While tyrant power that chain still faster binds,
Slow to concede and stubborn to retain;
In times like these, when fierce contentions rise,

— — I N the years about twenty
— — (When kisses are plenty)
The love of an Irish lass fell to my fate —
— — So winsome and sightly,
— — So saucy and sprightly,
The priest was a prophet that christened her Kate.

— — Soft gray of the dawning,
— — Bright blue of the morning,
The sweet of her eye there was nothing to mate;
— — A nose like a fairy's,
— — A cheek like a cherry's,
And a smile — well, her smile was like — nothing but Kate.

— — To see her was passion,

In the wild autumn weather, when the rain was on the sea,
And the boughs sobbed together, Death came and spake to me:
" Those red drops of thy heart I have come to take from thee;
As the storm sheds the rose, so thy love shall broken be, "
Said Death to me.

Then I stood straight and fearless while the rain was in the wave,
And I spake low and tearless: " When thou hast made my grave,
Those red drops from my heart then thou shalt surely have;
But the rose keeps its bloom, as I my love will save
All for my grave. "