romantic poems

I.

Sweetly to sleep beneath the fresh green turf
They laid the loved and lost away;
A chair is vacant by the household hearth,
And shadow-vested Sorrow's there to-day.


II.

The tender hands that guided us in youth
Are folded now upon the gentle breast,
And those dear eyes whose depths were love and truth
Are closed to open in eternal rest.


III.

Through simple faith and duty well performed,
A crown of light forever shall be hers;

So beautiful in all thine agony!
So radiant in thine infinite despair . . .
Oh, delicate mouth, brave eyes, and curled bright hair . . .
Oh, lovely body lashed to the rough tree:
What brutal fools were those that gave to thee
Red roses of thine outraged blood to wear,
Laughed at thy bitter pain and loathed the fair
Bruised flower of thy victorious purity?

Marvellous Beauty . . . target of the world,
How all Love's arrows seek thy joy, Oh Sweet!
And wound the white perfection of thy youth!

O Beauty, what is this?
A shadow of your face . . .
Where is the wild flower grace
That Love is wont to kiss?

Where is the bird that brings
To your untroubled eyes
The blue of fairy skies,
The flash of fairy wings? . . .

O wild bird of delight,
That no white hand may hold,
Or fairest cage of gold . . .
For who would stay its flight?

The song-bird of your voice
Whose magic song Love hears,
Trembling behind your tears,
Trilling when you rejoice . . .

O Beauty, what is this?

Rare garden where my heart goes gathering
Many a lovely and delightful thing,
Pale roses of your body and the fair
Unrivalled yellow blossoms of your hair!

Tall lilies of your gay and careless grace,
And O the wistful flower of your face!
And all the soft and starry mysteries
Of those divine forget-me-nots, your eyes . . .

O come, fair Love, before the flowers fade,
And bless this garden that the gods have made . . .
Rare garden where my heart goes gathering
Many a lovely and delightful thing . . .

Fair fortune you are wild and coy,
Fickle, mysterious, and shy . . .
And so we lost you, Love and I!
And now, at last, because we find
Your golden footprints, Love the boy,
Dreams you are near . . . but Love is blind!
Yet, surely Sorrow's arms unwind
From this tired heart, and dark distress
Fades softly . . . softly from the world:
And in Hope's silver sky unfurled,
I see the banners of delight!
And the grey heaven of life grows bright
With the red dawn of happiness . . .
As with a laughing look Love flings

Shy and wild . . . shy and wild
To my lovers I have been.
Frank and wayward as a child,
Strange and secret as a queen;
Fain of love, and love beguiled,
Yet afraid of love, I ween!

False and true . . . false and true
Is the woman's heart in me . . .
Fair lost faces that I rue,
Golden friends I laugh to see,
Changing, I come back to you,
Never doubt my loyalty!

If I had never known
How far would I have wandered wistfully alone,
Hearing no echo of that wondrous song
Whose music lingers long.

Beside whose sweetness pale
Even the soft notes of the nightingale,
Whose theme is wrought of laughter and of tears
From all the deathless years.

Ah, better thus by far
To once have felt the barriers unbar,
And known the moment in a rapt surprise
The song of Paradise!

When twilight falls and all the land is still,
The purple shadows steal across the hill,
And one lone star above a pine-tree's crest
Shines ever brighter, while from out its nest
There breaks the low cry of the whip-poor-will.

And softly grows the ladened hush until
E'en winds list o'er the fields of daffodil
They all day wafted,--'tis so sweet to rest
When twilight falls.

Let not one drop of this rare nectar spill,
But with the beryl wine your goblet fill.
Drink with me, Love, the golden of the west,

I looked out of my window tall
And laughed to see the May,
For everything both great and small
Was on a holiday.

Then Love came by and laughed at me,
And I forgot the Spring--
Only I knew the ecstasy
Of madly listening.

And now the branches all again
Are red with vernal May,
But tears have dimmed the window-pane--
And no one comes my way.

Deem not this book a creed, 't is but the cry
Of one who fears not death, yet would not die;
Who at the table feigns with sorry jest.
To love the wine the Master's hand has pressed,
The while he loves the absent Master best,--
The bitter cry of Love for love's reply!