romantic poems

I leaned out my window, I smelt the white clover,
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate;
Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover —
Hush, nightingale, hush! Oh, sweet nightingale, wait
Till I listen and hear
If a step draweth near,
For my love he is late!

" The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer,
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer:
To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see?
Let the star-clusters grow,

(i)

Death touched me where your head had lain.
What other spot could he have found
So tender to receive a wound,
So versed in all the arts of pain?

(ii)

Love came, and gave me wind and sun,
Love went, and left me light and air.
Nor gave he anything more fair
Than what I found when he was gone.

The thunder of Hate may be lost on the gale,
May be stilled in the storm, in the tempest may fail,
But the whisper of Love wings unerring its way
From a star to a star, through the ages for aye.

" Girl, gazing in the crystal pool,
What see you there to make you merry? "
" I see within the waters cool
My image — very like me, very. "
" You find it beautiful? "
" Indeed I do. "
" And that is why you're glad? "
" Why, certainly.
" My beauty, 'tis, — face, form, and hue —
That holds Sebastian dead in love with me. "
" Girl, so fair and frank and pure,
Sebastian's dying now to net you:
God grant that he may not forget you
If dies your beauty as the lure. " ...

Living and loving and dying,
Life is complete in the three.
Smiling or sobbing or sighing,
Which is for you or for me?
Hoping and struggling and striving,
Dreaming success by and by;
But whether we're driven or driving,
We live and we love and we die.

Aiming and hitting and missing,
Life is complete in the three.
The fickle world praising or hissing,
Which is for you or for me?
Striding or limping or creeping,
Time drives us heartlessly by;
Meeting and parting and weeping,

Little bird, little bird, singing in the tree,
Tell me pray, tell me pray, what your song may be?
Little child, little child, I will tell you true,
God is love, God is love, this I sing to you.

Little flower, little flower, in your dress so gay,
Tell me pray, tell me pray, what have you to say?
Little child, little child, I will tell you true,
God is love, God is love, He clothed me and you.

Pretty stars, pretty stars, shining all the night,
Tell me pray, tell me pray, why you look so bright?

We loved of yore, in warfare bold,
Nor laurelless. Now all must go;
Let this left wall of Venus show
The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.

Here let them hang, the torches cold,
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,
We loved of yore.

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold,
And Memphis free from Thracian snow,
Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow,
Smite, — smite but once that pretty scold
We loved of yore!

Shall any man for whose strong love another
Has thrown away his wealth and name in one,
Shall he turn mocker of a more than brother
To slight his need when his adventure's done?
Or shall a breedless boy whose mother won him
In great men's great concerns his little place
Turn when his farthing honours come upon him
To mock her yeoman air and conscious grace?

Then mock me as you do my narrow scope,
For you it was put out this light of mine:
Wrongfully wrecked my new adventured hope,

Unhappy East (not in that awe
you pay your Lords, whose will is law)
but in your owne unmanly raigne
on the soft sex, and proud disdaine,
what state would bring the valew downe
of treasure which is all their owne,
Their thoughts to worthlesse objects move
who thus suppresse the grouth of Love,
Love that extends the high desire
Love that improves the manly fyer
and makes the price of Beawty rise
and all our wishes multiplyes;
Such high content dwells not in sence
nor can the captiv'd fayre dispence

Such wondrous Faith in my own powers have I
That I can move a mountain if I choose.
But that's a task I don't intend to try.
I love to have the mountain standing by,
With paths to lead me nearer to the sky —
So what's the use?