romantic poems

Thou man, first-comer, whose wide arms entreat,
Gather, clasp, welcome, bind,
Lack, or remember; whose warm pulses beat
With love of thine own kind:—

Unlifted for a blessing on yon sea,
Unshrined on this highway,
O flesh, O grief, thou too shalt have our knee,
Thou rood of every day!

When Winter's ahead,
What can you read in November
That you read in April
When Winter's dead?

I hear the thrush, and I see
Him alone at the end of the lane
Near the bare poplar's tip,
Singing continuously.

Is it more that you know
Than that, even as in April,
So in November,
Winter is gone that must go?

Or is all your lore
Not to call November November,
And April April,
And Winter Winter—no more?

But I know the months all,
And their sweet names, April,

The wind at the casement enters, like a child's soul into the dusk,
With the cool, fresh scent of the garden, a fragrance of roses and musk.

Sing me a song, my love, and plead with the ivory keys
Till the soul of the organ wakes, astir with such visions as these,
While the golden day fades slowly among the garden trees
And I hear the robins coining their hearts upon the breeze.

Sing me a song, my love, of joys more sharp than pain,
The sweet, wild heart of dream athrill in the Autumn rain,

Ask me not how much I love you;
Be content!
If too much love were sin
You would but win
Some of my punishment.
Ask me not, but believe I merely love you.

If indeed I truly love you,
Never more
Will any harm come near,
Nor need you fear
My heart's voice at the door
Of your heart, whisp'ring, Open, sweet, I love you.

See! I cannot choose but love you
Soberly.
For, having felt your touch,
My pride in such
Familiarity
Warns me how he must worship who would love you.

Nay , not rewardless did your hero fall!
No pealing fame could match this great repose;
Death's grassy calm, after life's bugle call,
And love's white lily after war's red rose.

Light hearted, careless, shall I take my way,
When I to thee this being have resigned,
Well knowing where upon a future day,
With usurer's craft, more than myself to find.

Who is the maiden
Who is gathering flowers
And is not love-laden?
But she now would gather
A rose, the fair maiden,
And he of the garden
Besought for the favour,
If she is not love-laden.

Had the gods loved me I had lain
Where darnel is, and thorn,
And the wild night-bird's nightlong strain
Trembles in boughs forlorn.

Nay, but they loved me not; and I
Must needs a stranger be,
Whose every exiled day gone by
Aches with their memory.

This yearning heart (Love! witness what I say)
Enshrines thy form as purely as it may,
Round which, as to some spirit uttering bliss,
My thoughts all stand ministrant night and day
Like saintly Priests, that dare not think amiss.

O how shall I, unskilfu', try
The Poet's occupation?
The tunefu' Powers, in happy hours,
That whisper, inspiration,

Even they maun dare an effort mair
Than aught they ever gave us,
Or they rehearse in equal verse
The charms o' lovely Davies.—

Each eye it chears when she appears,
Like Phebus in the morning,
When past the shower, and every flower
The garden is adorning:
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore,
When winter-bound the wave is;
Sae droops our heart when we maun part