1247 Love poems

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Whatever ’tis, whose beauty here below Attracts thee thus and makes thee stream and flow, And wind and curl, and wink and smile, Shifting thy gate and guile; Though thy close commerce nought at all imbars My present search, for eagles eye not stars, And still the lesser by the best And highest good is blest; Yet, seeing all things that subsist and be, Have their commissions from divinity, And teach us duty, I will see What man may learn from thee. First, I am sure, the subject so respected Is well dispos’d, for bodies once infected, Deprav’d, or dead, can have with thee No hold, nor sympathy. Next, there’s in it a restless, pure desire And longing for thy bright and vital fire, Desire that never will be quench’d, Nor can be writh’d, nor wrench’d. These are the magnets which so strongly move And work all night upon thy light and love, As beauteous shapes, we know not why, Command and guide the eye. For where desire, celestial, pure desire Hath taken root, and grows, and doth not tire, There God a commerce states, and sheds His secret on their heads. This is the heart he craves, and who so will But give it him, and grudge not, he shall feel That God is true, as herbs unseen Put on their youth and green.

Zipping your skirt, you rustle past, sand hissing through a glass, with the Bedouin snap and flash of static-electric sparks disturbing fabric. This morning’s charge could rouse The Desert Fathers of Sinai

My sweet did sweetly sleep, And on her rosy face Stood tears of pearl, which beauty’s self did weep; I, wond’ring at her grace, Did all amaz’d remain, When Love said, “Fool, can looks thy wishes crown? Time past comes not again.” Then did I me bow down, And kissing her fair breast, lips, cheeks, and eyes Prov’d here on earth the joys of paradise.

The stork arrived alone one day, beak sharpened like a bayonet. All the love you’ve had turned bad! he sang, eyes boring through the dingy nets. He hopped onto the patio. Good lord! Is this a rented flat? Behind the shed, albino rats were nuzzled on a family bed. He hovered over them, wings spread. Now this is how you do it! he said. He speared a worm and sucked it down. A rented flat, my god, he said. Inside, I laid my hands around my lump, my pumpkin-up-the-jumper. I’d swapped the wine and cigarettes for goji berries, spent the summer asleep or stretched in yoga pose, Utkatasana, Dhyana... The stork came hopping round the corner scraped his claw across the door — Hello, hello? he called, polite, then screamed I will not be ignored! He had a bloody bone to pick, an oozy piece of mind to share. I was eight months gone by Halloween. Kids rang the rented bell in sheets and slime. I tried “maternal” out with chocolate limes and fizzy sweets. The bird shrieked half the witchy night: For god’s sake, are you stupid? Teeth! I waddled off to pack my case — gorillas snoozing on the onesies, pink booties, pads to catch the blood. When they tugged that baby out of me he came up laughing, blessed the midwife with a fiery arc of golden pee and through the skylight of the ward I saw the stork retreat, zigzagging up into the evening sky, a fading squawk, the beat of wings. Then they laid that baby on my chest to feed, and cut the navel string —

Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train, Fair Sacharissa lov’d, but lov’d in vain; Like Phœbus sung the no less amorous boy; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy; With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, With numbers such as Phœbus’ self might use; Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O’er craggy mountains, and through flow’ry meads; Invok’d to testify the lover’s care, Or form some image of his cruel fair: Urg’d with his fury, like a wounded deer, O’er these he fled; and now approaching near, Had reach’d the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain; All but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his passion, and approve his song. Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise, He catch’d at love, and fill’d his arm with bays.

I’d have you known! It puzzles me forever To hear, day in, day out, the words men use, But never a single word about you, never. Strange!—in your every gesture, worlds of news. On busses people talk. On curbs I hear them; In parks I listen, barbershop and bar. In banks they murmur, and I sidle near them; But none allude to you there. None so far. I read books too, and turn the pages, spying: You must be there, one beautiful as you! But never, not by name. No planes are flying Your name in lacy trailers past the blue Marquees of heaven. No trumpets cry your fame. Strange!—how no constellations spell your name!

The nights have grown cool again, like the nights of early spring, and quiet again. Will speech disturb you? We're alone now; we have no reason for silence. Can you see, over the garden—the full moon rises. I won't see the next full moon. In spring, when the moon rose, it meant time was endless. Snowdrops opened and closed, the clustered seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts. White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree. And in the crook, where the tree divides, leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight soft greenish-silver. We have come too far together toward the end now to fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain I know what the end means. And you, who've been with a man— after the first cries, doesn't joy, like fear, make no sound?

Sir, say no more. Within me ’t is as if The green and climbing eyesight of a cat Crawled near my mind’s poor birds.

what we have is what there is and who we are and who we is is love