romantic poems

When your lips to my hand you press
Lowly, my dear one,
A moment out of the daytime stress
Swift-snatched, my dear one,
I am a princess, and you my knight
Seeking a guerdon, armed for fight, —
(And the palace of Love looms near one!)

When we linger, while hours go by,
Where woods are lonely,
With garnet leaves and a mist-blue sky
Dream-deep and lonely,
I am a dryad that you have found
And fast to the life of mortals bound —
(Love's bonds are his young arms only!)

Thy love for me is like a tower
Whereto from strife and storm I flee;
High on the rock its steadfast walls
Are set above the bitter sea.

Within its shelter safe and dear
I hear, and smiling dread no more,
The mockery of the ghostly wind,
The time-waves breaking on the shore.

I love the ends of streets —
Those high and narrow dreams
That slip into men's sight
For all their blinded walls;

I love the ends of streets —
Wickets for morning-gleams,
Last taverns for the light
When evening falls;

I love the ends of streets!
From those steep stairs, it seems,
Something looks back, at night,
And calls, and calls.

I love the friendly faces of old Sorrows;
I have no secrets that they do not know.
They are so old, I think they have forgotten
What bitter words were spoken, long ago.

I hate the cold, stern faces of new Sorrows
Who stand and watch, and catch me all alone.
I should be braver if I could remember
How different the older ones have grown.

Because I love you more than all the world
I write of other things,
For how shall little words combine to tell
The wonder that love brings?

And yet if there be one frail song of mine
That finally endures,
By all the love my lips have never sung,
You know that it is yours.

Three charms I have to turn a dark world bright —
The thought of white ships sailing out to sea,
The moonlit mountains on a summer night,
And the remembrance of your love for me.

I have known beauty, I have walked with love
And I have held a child against my breast—
How then shall I fear pain or grief or death,
Being so blest?

Rather a song in my heart
With flashing wings,
Rather a jeweled dream
Than the wealth of kings.

Rather the pain of loving
Than all things sweet,
Rather the thought of you
Than the world at my feet.

I am not afraid of love that grows from a spark
To an all-consuming flame,
Though it wrap my life in a mantle of scarlet pain —
Though it blister my soul with shame.

But I am afraid of love that is born a flame
And slowly dies to a spark.
I am afraid of the bitter ashes of love —
Afraid of the dark!

I hate the man who o'er the wine-brimmed bowl
Sings ever of war and conquest; he delights
Me most who wit with lyric gifts unites,
And to love's charms divine gives up his soul.