romantic poems

How beautiful she looks, opening the pearly casement,
And how quiet she leans, and how troubled her brow is!
You may see the tears now, bright on her cheek,
But not the man she so bitterly loves.

The youth beneath her balcon sings of love —
Old Shylock's gone: " O Jessica, come thou
Unto this heart which in one fervent vow
Has burned its flesh and blood! " The moments move
As days in Eden; she goes, like a dove,
From great St. Mark's at Venice, to endow
Her lover with her life. The rosy Now
Seems Heaven itself, and he the Lord thereof.
But love is rainbow-tinted, and as short
As is the life of rainbows. " Mine? Oh, nay! "
Say'st thou, fair Jessica, who maketh sport
Of that old Jew, thy father? In love's court

In old Assisi, Francis loved so well
His Lady Poverty, that to his heart
He pressed her heart, nor felt the deadly smart
From lips of frost, nor saw the fire of hell
From lurid eyes that fevered Dante's cell,
And parches souls who, hating, feel her dart.
He chose her, and he dwelt with her apart,
The two were one, illumined through Love's spell:

He loved her, and she glowed, a lambent star;
He loved her, and the birds came at his call —
Her frosts were pearls, her face was fair to see.

If as my spirit yearns for thine
Thine yearns for me, why thus delay?
And yet, what answer might be mine
If, pausing on her way,
Some gossip bade me tell
Whence the deep sighs that from my bosom swell?

And thy dear name my lips should pass,
My blushes would our loves declare;
No, no! I'll say my longing was
To see the moon appear
O'er yonder darkling hill;
Yet 'tis on thee mine eyes would gaze their fill!

If poesy have truth at all,
And if a Lion of the Gael
Shall rule the Lovely Land of Fal!
O yellow mast! O roaring sail!
Carry a message o'er the sea!
Carry the leadership from me
To great O Neill!

As the bold huntsman on some mountain path
Waits for the stag he hopes may pass that way,
So wait I for my love both night and day :
Then bark not at him, as thou fear'st my wrath!

They wonder why I love the rains and gales
And walk through puddles with a downward gaze —
I hunt the films of oil, like peacock's tails,
Dripped by gay taxis on the rainy days.

I heard it from the willow tree
Tossed by the wind so silverly:
That some day this bright world shall be
More clean, more lovely, and more free ...
A free and clean and lovely earth?
I tell it you for what it's worth.

There was some meaning in that air:
I tell you that I saw it there,
White windy patterns in the sky,
The willows tossed, and Truth came by —
A world more generous and clean,
A world more worth its blue and green ...
It may be, or it may not be —
No willow ever lied to me.

He walks in vain by yonder garden-gate,
Where hollyhocks and tall carnations rise,
Sweet marjoram, and blooms that linger late,
And all the scented herbs that house-wives prize.

A late rose throws soft kisses to the breeze,
On petals sunrise-hued, like his love's cheeks;
He hears a child's voice in the apple-trees;
He starts! Ah, no; it is not she that speaks.

Gone! Lost! Her voice must ever be afar —
Those tones that made his fond heart fervent bound;
'T was not a voice as other voices are,

From of old the love of fair ones Only wont and goal of mine is
And the care thereof the solace Of this heart in dole of mine is

To discern thy mouth of ruby Eyes soul-seeing there behoveth.
What room for this eye, that seith Body, but not soul, of mine is?

Be my friend; for the adornment Of the world-all from thy moonface
And the tears that, like the Pleiads, From these eyes do roll of mine, is.

Since the love of thee in speechcraft Lessoned me whilere, the practice
Of all people's tongues these praises Ever to extol of mine is.