romantic poems

I will break the back
of this long, midwinter night,
folding it double,
cold beneath my spring quilt,
that I may draw out
the night, should my love return.

Now the lovely moon is wilted,
——Lost her petals down the sky.
——Sorrily the wind goes by;
Rosebuds where the branches tilted
——Yield their flowers with a sigh.

June, the wonderment of blossom,
——With her necklace' thirsty pearls,
——With her tearful eyes and girl's
Changing, ever changing bosom,
——With the hot sun in her curls—

This is last of all the June-nights.—
——Let us softly speak of living,
——Thou whose life was but forgiving,
I that in the passèd moonlight's
——Shadow, moved thee with my grieving.

I LOVE thee longer and I love thee most—
Altho' I love thee always to the end—
To-day among the blossoms lightly tossed
That with the sunshine blend,

Below the bright new leaves and wandering
Within the warm and lilac-laden breeze,
I love thee most this only day of spring
Under the open trees.

This thick curled hyacinth is all for thee.
The tulips yonder wave to get a smile.
Make them as happy, love! Ah happy me!
Love them a little while.

I am so happy, happy, being thine!

Night is fallen within, without,
——Come, Love, soon!
I am weary of my doubt.
The golden fire of the Sun is out,
—The silver fire of the Moon.

Love shall be
—A child in me
When they are cinders gray,
With the earth and with the sea,
With the star that shines on thee,
—And the night and day.

In the mist and the rain I met you,
—Scarcely I saw your face.
The buffeting wind beset you,
—And robbed you of your grace.
——My arms went round thee,
——My love found thee
———A resting place.

Therefore the sun at morning
—Is not so dear.
I cherish the wild warning
—Of love, not fear,
——That comes with rain crying
——And wind sighing,
———“She is here!”

I THOUGHT the road led to a splendid city,
Noble and bright.
Love did I love, nor feared the touch of pity.
I walked in light.
“I shall be there!” Hope whispered, “ere the night.”

Others I see arriving, enter gladly,
But in my face
The gates are shut. I may not enter. Sadly
I run my race
I know not whither. Night draws on apace.

I would come in a shirt of hair
I would come with a lamp in the night
And sit at the foot of your stair;
I would flog myself until I bled,
And after hour on hour of prayer
And torture and delight
Until my blood should ring the lamp
And glisten in the light;
I should arise your neophyte
And then put out the light
To follow where you lead,
To follow where your feet are white
In the darkness toward your bed
And where your gown is white
And against your gown your braided hair.
Then you would take me in

Because my love is quick to come and go—
A little here, and then a little there—
What use are any words of mine to swear
My heart is stubborn, and my spirit slow
Of weathering the drip and drive of woe?
What is my oath, when you have but to bare
My little, easy loves; and I can dare
Only to shrug, and answer, “They are so”?

You do not know how heavy a heart it is
That hangs about my neck—a clumsy stone
Cut with a birth, a death, a bridal-day.
Each time I love, I find it still my own,

O sweet delight, O more then humane blisse,
With her to live that ever loving is;
To heare her speake, whose words so well are plac't,
That she by them, as they in her are grac't;
Those lookes to view, that feast the viewers eye;
How blest is he that may so live and dye!

Such love as this the golden times did know,
When all did reape, yet none tooke care to sow:
Such love as this an endlesse Summer makes,
And all distaste from fraile affection takes.
So lov'd, so blest, in my belov'd am I;

The world was wide when I was young,
My schoolday hills and dales among;
But, oh, it needs no Puck to put,
With whipping wing and flying foot,
A girdle 'round the narrow sphere
In which I labor now and here!

Life's face was fair when careless I
First loved beneath an April sky,
And wept those fine-imagined woes
That Youth at nineteen thinks it knows;
Now love and woe both run so deep
I have not any time to weep.

No matter; though at last we see
That what was could not always be,