romantic poems

That seeking Prelude found its unforetold
Unguessed intention, trend;
Though needing no fulfilment, did enfold
This exquisite end.

Bach led his notes up through their delicate slope
Aspiring, so they sound,
And so they were, in some strange ignorant hope
Thus to be crowned.

What deep soft seas beneath this buoyant barque!
What winds to speed this bird!
What impulses to toss this heavenward lark!
Thought—then the word.

Lovely the tune, lovely the unconsciousness
Of him who promised it.

He was a boy when first we met
His eyes were mixed of dew and fire
And on his candid brow was set
The sweetness of a chaste desire.
But in his Veins the pulses beat
Of passion waiting, for its wing,
As ardent veins of summer heat
Throb through the innocence of spring.

As manhood came, his stature grew,
And fiercer burned his restless eyes
Until I trembled, as he drew
From wedded hearts their young disguise.
Like wind-fed flame his ardor rose
And brought, like flame, a stormy rain:

A sad sweet song at even-tide
Came from the neighb'ring grove;
It was no song of sorrow, nor was it a lay of love,
It was no song of sorrow,
Nor was it a lay of love.
'Twas but a pretty Robin's trill,
With melancholy strain,
Among the leafy branches sung.
They said, portending rain
Among the leafy branches sung, they said, portending rain
The sky was bright with rosy red
And dusky mists were hanging low;
Than that sweet song at even-tide,
No sweeter sadder song we know.

Dear lovely Death
That taketh all things under wing—
Never to kill—
Only to change
Into some other thing
This suffering flesh,
To make it either more or less,
But not again the same—
Dear lovely Death,
Change is thy other name.

What though it please you light my heart with fire
(Heart that is yours, your subject, your domain),
With fire of Furies, not with Love's sweet pain,
To waste me body and bone till life expire!

The ill that others deem too cruel-dire
Is sweet to me—I will not once complain,
For I love not my life, nor hold it fain
Save as to love it pleases your desire.

But yet, if Heaven hath made me, Lady mine,
To be your victim, may it not suffice
To lay my loyal service at your shrine?

I am not afraid to turn the corner:
I know what is round where and am satisfied:
I know that hate is round there and cruelty and that I must suffer as well as enjoy,
But I know that love also is round there, ceaseless love.
I hear voices: voices that caution me against my loyal journeys.
But no matter what are the warnings they post on the uncertain road,
I go my way without a stop, in the full knowledge of love's loss and love's gain,
My way to the end and the beginning again without a stop,

Help me to hold the Vision Undefiled;
To love, and, taught by Love, to understand.
Lord, as a Father with a Backward child,
Guide Thou the Pen within my wavering hand!

Above a low mound at the cedar tree's root
Is carved on a stone that is moldering dark,
“The Dove found no rest for the sole of her foot,
And returned unto Him in the Ark.”

I saw a vision of the morning age
A farm with mammoths in the stable fed
A man stroking strange hounds: and o'er his head
A pterodactyl singing in a cage.

Gigantic elks dragged ploughs on uplands high
All the world's wild youth wrought around him rose
Huge and half-witted things, to chaos close
He loved them: and I knew that it was I.

Bearing this snail I stand on crags above
And cry aloud to all the worlds that fell—
Daring the darkness of the brain of hell
To breed one horror that I cannot love.

You are a yonger brother; but, God shield
That I should make you so, were you a child;
No; I will make you (as you are) a man
Of that desert as you both will and can
Teach yonger brothers to be generous;
And liue like those that grace not shame, their House.

Leave me, Fear! thy throbs are base,
Trembling for the body's sake.
Come, Love! who dost the spirit raise,
Because for others thou dost wake.
O it is beautiful in death
To hide the shame of human nature's end
In sweet & wary serving of a friend.
Love is true Glory's field, where the last breath
Expires in troops of honorable cares.
The wound of Fate the hero cannot feel
Smit with the heavenlier smart of social zeal.
It draws immortal day
In soot & ashes of our clay.
It is the virtue that enchants it.