romantic poems

Charm of my life, my dearest care,
Never, O never here I swear,
Within my cradling arms has lain
Your like, nor ever will again.
Give me your willing lips that I
May taste the honey of the vine,
And give me when I ask for wine
The cup in which your kisses lie.

And if--ah, if--my sweetest sweet,
With love as true my love you greet,
A greater joy than mortals know
Within my heart will flame and grow;
O not so rapt in godlike bliss
In his high halls is Jove indeed
When in his arms young Ganymede

Bury it, and sift
Dust upon its light, —
Death must not be left,
To offend the sight.

Cover the old love —
Weep not on the mound —
Grass shall grow above,
Lilies spring around.

Can we fight the law,
Can our natures change —
Half-way through withdraw —
Other lives exchange?

You and I must do
As the world has done,
There is nothing new
Underneath the sun.

Fill the grave up full —
Put the dead love by —
Not that men are dull,

1. The birds of the forest are calling for thee And the
shades and the glades are lonely; Summer is there with her blossoms
fair, And you are absent only. No
bird that nests in the green-wood tree But sighs to greet you and
kiss you, All the violets yearn, yearn for your safe return, But
most of all I miss you.
2. The fawn that you tamed has a look in its eyes That doth
say " We are too long parted; " Songs that are trolled by our comrades
old Are not now as they were light hearted. The

I've known fancies turn into dreaming,
but never believed a dream could be like this:
she was fair, fair, immaculate,
she was pure, pure perfection,
as she sat, intimate, by hibiscus cushions,
as she turned back the joy-of-love quilt,
and her elegant footsteps were so lovely,
her whispered words most enchanting.
What I describe didn't seem to happen fast,
but then, strangely, became a momentary thing,
and I woke to nothingness,
aware that all is empty illusion.

Yes, she's a good dog,
lived four or five years
within his crimson gates,

fur sweet-smelling,
feet quite clean,
master affectionate.

Then by chance she
took a nip
and bit a well-loved guest

Now she no longer sleeps
upon his red silk rugs.

Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake
The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee;
Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee,
Already they watch the path thy feet shall take:
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

And if thou tarry from her, — if this could be, —
She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee;
For thee would unashamed herself forsake:

At first awhile sits he,
With calm, unruffled brow;
His features then I see,
Distorted hideously, —
An owl's they might be now.
What is it, askest thou?
Is't love, or is't ennui?
'Tis both at once, I vow.

Another year has struck the vibrant chime
And still you sleep; roots stir beneath the tomb,
And yet you do not know, immune to time,
Beyond the reach of spring's returning bloom;
Yet still, at times, our love, O Washington,
Must penetrate the very walls of breath;
A father surely hears a loving son
Beyond the barrier of time . . . and death.
And so we speak again; perhaps you hear
The echo of an echo, and you know
How through the fateful years you grow more dear,
Your name a symbol; be it ever so.

And what is love? It is a doll dressed up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Till Cleopatra lives at Number Seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warmed the world,
If queens and soldiers have played deep for hearts,

All a green willow, willow, willow ,
All a green willow is my garland.
Alas! by what mean may I make ye to know
The unkindness for kindness that to me doth grow?
That one who most kind love on me should bestow,
Most unkind unkindness to me she doth show,
For all a green willow is my garland.

To have love and hold love, where love is so sped,
Oh, delicate food to the lover so fed!
From love won to love lost, where lovers be led,
Oh, desperate dolour, the lover is dead!