romantic poems

I know as well as you she is not fair,
Nor hath she sparkling eyes, or curled hair;
Nor can she brag of virtue or of truth,
Or anything about her, save her youth.
She is woman too, and to no end
I know, I verses write and letters send;
And nought I do can to compassion move her;
All this I know, yet cannot choose but love her.
Yet am not blind, as you and others be,
Who think and swear they little Cupid see
Play in their mistress' eyes, and that there dwell
Roses on cheeks, and that her breasts excel

Alane I wander, alane I pine,
Whaur nane can hear, an' whaur nane can see,
To sigh ower the days o' auld lang syne,
Wi' brimfou' bosom an' tearfu' ee.
There's nane to feel or to care for me,
There's nane to ken the wanderer noo,
Wha roamed these mountains in youthfu' glee,
But climbs them noo wi' a careworn broo.

For hopeless love did I leave my hame,
For hopeless love did I lang to dee;
My love, my langin' are still the same,
But my dear Mary, — O whaur is she!
And what are thae changeless hills to me,

A Lion to a Woodcutter:
" Your daughter, may I marry her? "
The father, loath and yet suspecting
He'd suffer violence by rejecting,
Agreed by contract with the clause
To draw his teeth and cut his claws —
To which the Lion gave assent
(Love blinding him to the intent).
When next the Beast a-wooing came,
As harmless as a cat and tame,
The Woodcutter he seized an axe
And gave him sundry sudden whacks.

MORAL

A lover, who to win a wife
Surrenders all he's got in life,

The night is dark; the hollow wind
Is breathing faint and low:
Though loth to leave my love behind,
Perforce away I go.

Away o'er mountain and o'er moor, —
My guide, no friendly star;
No window-light, to lead me o'er
The heath, that spreads afar.

Though dark the night, a darker shade
Hangs heavy round my heart.
How deep it sank, as cold she said
Those bitter words: " We part! "

" We part, and, ay, for ever too:
My love for thee has gone. "
I turned, and bade no last adieu

I.

May has come: — the woods are ringing;
Clearer sounds the hunter's horn;
Birds in every brake are singing;
Yellow-green the springing corn.

May has come: — in field and meadow
Starry bloom the virgin flowers;
Broad the maple flings its shadow;
Snowy white the elder bowers.

Green the slope of yonder mountain,
Mellowed to a golden glow;

I ran into the early dew
To breathe the break of day,
And all at once was made so new
That I began to play.

But first, I wept — it shone so bright!
It almost seemed to sing.
It sprang from an abyss of light
An innocent wild thing.

And richly did it feed my soul
With sustenance of flame.
It burned like archangelic bread
And to the feast I came.

Oh, purple light! Oh, golden sheen!
More white than fiery snow!
It sweetly burned and smiled at me
And would not let me go.

White soul, too white for us who work with clay,
Sweet mistress of the gentle flowers and birds,
Harshly compelled to speak your loving words
So long but to the subtle beasts of prey:
I was your earthly husband for a day,
Too strange a nature for an eye so blue;
And yet so honest was my love to you,
I gave you something ere you went away. . . .

I've set no stone upon the grave out there,
Whither in all my years I shall not go;
But, conquering pain, and pity, and despair,
I bind these leaves with solemn hands and slow:

G AZEL

Years trodden under foot have I lain on that path of thine;
Thy musky locks are noose-like cast, around my feet to twine.
O Princess mine! boast not thyself through loveliness of face,
For that, alas, is but a sun which must full soon decline!
The loved one's stature tall, her form as fair as juniper,
Bright 'midst the rosy bowers of grace a slender tree doth shine.
Her figure, fair-proportioned as my poesy sublime,
Her slender waist is like its subtle thought — hard to divine.

Love! and my soul like ashes at thy feet!
Love! and blind tears and shattered hopes that fell!
A mad forgiveness — and a wild farewell! —
And broken steps along an old-world street,
The seas between us! — then the withering heat —
The hate that, like a demon roused from hell,
Smote into flame the splendor and the spell,
Till thou to me wert ashes, Marguerite! —

Yes, I remember. — But when storms are done,
The wet leaves sparkle on the mountain tree;
The gold clouds lie about the setting sun;

The hearth-fire of the universe
To-night burns kind and deep;
We warm ourselves before it
In converse ere we sleep.

For Love, the mighty builder,
Makes boundless space a home;
We nestle safe and fearless,
With infinite skies for dome.