romantic poems

I.

You sing with voice, I sing with words:
But both are one
In loving music like the birds
And loving flowers and sun.

II.

The voice of radiant youth is thine;
Youth's glance supreme,
Most sweet of all things, most divine,
That makes all life a dream.

III.

Mine only this — the while I may
Before thy throne
To bend, and call the dawn of day
Within thy heart my own.

The Spring is come and winters gone
And nature all ears tingle
Sweet Nanny's put her bonnet on
For flowers wild i' the pingle
The birds are building every where
Wi hair and bents and mosses
On white thorn, black thorn, dog rose brere
Mid sheep and cows and horses

2

My love is in her gown o' green
Walking and talking still
Among the hills and hollows seen
By the old water Mill
Her face is comely as a queen
Her auburn curls hang down
Oer shoulders white as snow I ween

As often as I murmur here
My half-formed melodies,
Straight from her osier mansion near,
The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,
The captive promptly coos;
Is it to teach her own soft lore,
Or second my weak Muse?

I rather think, the gentle Dove
Is murmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love
Have dared to keep aloof;
That I, a Bard of hill and dale,
Have carolled, fancy free,
As if nor dove nor nightingale
Had heart or voice for me.

To pile like Thunder to its close
Then crumble grand away
While Everything created hid
This — would be Poetry —

Or Love — the two coeval come —
We both and neither prove —
Experience either and consume —
For None see God and live —

Lord Archer, Death, whom sent you in your stead?
What faltering prentice fumbled at your bow,
That now should wander with the insanguine dead
In whom forever the bright blood must flow?
Or is it rather that impairing Time
Renders yourself so random, or so dim?
Or are you sick of shadows and would climb
A while to light, a while detaining him?
For know, this was no mortal youth, to be
Of you confounded, but a heavenly guest,
Assuming earthly garb for love of me,
And hell's demure attire for love of jest:

Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly
Of all the things that are the outward you,
And my gaze wanders ere your tale is through
To webs of my own weaving, or I see
Abstractedly your hands about your knee
And wonder why I love you as I do,
Then I recall, " Yet Sorrow thus he drew " ;
Then I consider, " Pride thus painted he. "
Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note
In me a beauty that was never mine,
How first you knew me in a book I wrote,
How first you loved me for a written line:

That Love at length should find me out and bring
This fierce and trivial brow unto the dust,
Is, after all, I must confess, but just;
There is a subtle beauty in this thing,
A wry perfection; wherefore now let sing
All voices how into my throat is thrust,
Unwelcome as Death's own, Love's bitter crust,
All criers proclaim it, and all steeples ring.
This being done, there let the matter rest.
What more remains is neither here nor there.
That you requite me not is plain to see;
Myself your slave herein have I confessed:

Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
And drag me at your chariot till I die,—
Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!—
Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie
Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair,
Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr,
Who still am free, unto no querulous care
A fool, and in no temple worshiper!
I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire,
Lifted my face into its puny rain,
Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire
As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!

You mince, you start
advancing indirectly —
your tail upright
knocking about among the
frail, heavily flowered
sprays.

Yes, you are lovely
with your ingratiating
manners, sleek sides and
small white paws but
I wish you had not come

To the bob-white's call
and drone of reaper

tumbling daisies in the sun —
one by one

about the smutting panels of
white doors

grey shingles slip and fall —
But you, a loveliness

of even lines
curving to the throat, the

crossroads is your home.
You are, upon

your steady stem
one trumpeted wide flower

slightly tilted
above a scale of buds —

Sometimes a farmer's wife
gathers an armful

for her pitcher on the porch —