1247 Love poems

Like a lone Arab, old and blind, Some caravan had left behind, Who sits beside a ruin'd well, Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell; And now he hangs his ag{'e}d head aslant, And listens for a human sound—in vain! And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant, Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;— Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, Resting my eye upon a drooping plant, With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower, I sate upon the couch of camomile; And—whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance, Flitted across the idle brain, the while I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope, In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance, Turn'd my eye inward—thee, O genial Hope, Love's elder sister! thee did I behold Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim, Lie lifeless at my feet! And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, And stood beside my seat; She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips, As she was wont to do;— Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath Woke just enough of life in death To make Hope die anew.

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born. I cannot think that he, who then lov'd most, Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this god produc'd a destiny, And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, I must love her, that loves not me. Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much, Nor he in his young godhead practis'd it. But when an even flame two hearts did touch, His office was indulgently to fit Actives to passives. Correspondency Only his subject was; it cannot be Love, till I love her, that loves me. But every modern god will now extend His vast prerogative as far as Jove. To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the god of love. O! were we waken'd by this tyranny To ungod this child again, it could not be I should love her, who loves not me. Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, As though I felt the worst that love could do? Love might make me leave loving, or might try A deeper plague, to make her love me too; Which, since she loves before, I'am loth to see. Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, If she whom I love, should love me.

Pack, clouds away! and welcome day! With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air, blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I’ll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow; To give my love good-morrow; Notes from them both I’ll borrow. Wake from thy nest, Robin Redbreast, Sing birds in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow; To give my love good-morrow, Sing birds in every furrow.

Love's last urgency is earth and grief is all gravity and the long fall always back to earliest hours that exist nowhere but in one's brain. From the hard-packed pile of old-mown grass, from boredom, from pain, a boy's random slash unlocks a dark ardor of angry bees that link the trees and block his way home. I like to hold him holding me, mystery mastering fear, so young, standing unstung under what survives of sky. I learned too late how to live. Child, teach me how to die.

Master of the murmuring courts Where the shapes of sleep convene!— Lo! my spirit here exhorts All the powers of thy demesne For their aid to woo my queen. What reports Yield thy jealous courts unseen? Vaporous, unaccountable, Dreamland lies forlorn of light, Hollow like a breathing shell. Ah! that from all dreams I might Choose one dream and guide its flight! I know well What her sleep should tell to-night. There the dreams are multitudes: Some that will not wait for sleep, Deep within the August woods; Some that hum while rest may steep Weary labour laid a-heap; Interludes, Some, of grievous moods that weep. Poets' fancies all are there: There the elf-girls flood with wings Valleys full of plaintive air; There breathe perfumes; there in rings Whirl the foam-bewildered springs; Siren there Winds her dizzy hair and sings. Thence the one dream mutually Dreamed in bridal unison, Less than waking ecstasy; Half-formed visions that make moan In the house of birth alone; And what we At death's wicket see, unknown. But for mine own sleep, it lies In one gracious form's control, Fair with honourable eyes, Lamps of a translucent soul: O their glance is loftiest dole, Sweet and wise, Wherein Love descries his goal. Reft of her, my dreams are all Clammy trance that fears the sky: Changing footpaths shift and fall; From polluted coverts nigh, Miserable phantoms sigh; Quakes the pall, And the funeral goes by. Master, is it soothly said That, as echoes of man's speech Far in secret clefts are made, So do all men's bodies reach Shadows o'er thy sunken beach,— Shape or shade In those halls pourtrayed of each? Ah! might I, by thy good grace Groping in the windy stair, (Darkness and the breath of space Like loud waters everywhere,) Meeting mine own image there Face to face, Send it from that place to her! Nay, not I; but oh! do thou, Master, from thy shadowkind Call my body's phantom now: Bid it bear its face declin'd Till its flight her slumbers find, And her brow Feel its presence bow like wind. Where in groves the gracile Spring Trembles, with mute orison Confidently strengthening, Water's voice and wind's as one Shed an echo in the sun. Soft as Spring, Master, bid it sing and moan. Song shall tell how glad and strong Is the night she soothes alway; Moan shall grieve with that parched tongue Of the brazen hours of day: Sounds as of the springtide they, Moan and song, While the chill months long for May. Not the prayers which with all leave The world's fluent woes prefer,— Not the praise the world doth give, Dulcet fulsome whisperer;— Let it yield my love to her, And achieve Strength that shall not grieve or err. Wheresoe'er my dreams befall, Both at night-watch, (let it say,) And where round the sundial The reluctant hours of day, Heartless, hopeless of their way, Rest and call;— There her glance doth fall and stay. Suddenly her face is there: So do mounting vapours wreathe Subtle-scented transports where The black firwood sets its teeth. Part the boughs and look beneath,— Lilies share Secret waters there, and breathe. Master, bid my shadow bend Whispering thus till birth of light, Lest new shapes that sleep may send Scatter all its work to flight;— Master, master of the night, Bid it spend Speech, song, prayer, and end aright. Yet, ah me! if at her head There another phantom lean Murmuring o'er the fragrant bed,— Ah! and if my spirit's queen Smile those alien prayers between,— Ah! poor shade! Shall it strive, or fade unseen? How should love's own messenger Strive with love and be love's foe? Master, nay! If thus, in her, Sleep a wedded heart should show,— Silent let mine image go, Its old share Of thy spell-bound air to know. Like a vapour wan and mute, Like a flame, so let it pass; One low sigh across her lute, One dull breath against her glass; And to my sad soul, alas! One salute Cold as when Death's foot shall pass. Then, too, let all hopes of mine, All vain hopes by night and day, Slowly at thy summoning sign Rise up pallid and obey. Dreams, if this is thus, were they:— Be they thine, And to dreamworld pine away. Yet from old time, life, not death, Master, in thy rule is rife: Lo! through thee, with mingling breath, Adam woke beside his wife. O Love bring me so, for strife, Force and faith, Bring me so not death but life! Yea, to Love himself is pour'd This frail song of hope and fear. Thou art Love, of one accord With kind Sleep to bring her near, Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear. Master, Lord, In her name implor'd, O hear!

The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?— See the mountains kiss high heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth And the moonbeams kiss the sea: What is all this sweet work worth If thou kiss not me?

Slight unpremeditated Words are borne By every common Wind into the Air; Carelessly utter’d, die as soon as born, And in one instant give both Hope and Fear: Breathing all Contraries with the same Wind According to the Caprice of the Mind. But Billetdoux are constant Witnesses, Substantial Records to Eternity; Just Evidences, who the Truth confess, On which the Lover safely may rely; They’re serious Thoughts, digested and resolv’d; And last, when Words are into Clouds devolv’d.

My own dear love, he is strong and bold And he cares not what comes after. His words ring sweet as a chime of gold, And his eyes are lit with laughter. He is jubilant as a flag unfurled— Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him. My own dear love, he is all my world,— And I wish I’d never met him. My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet, And a wild young wood-thing bore him! The ways are fair to his roaming feet, And the skies are sunlit for him. As sharply sweet to my heart he seems As the fragrance of acacia. My own dear love, he is all my dreams,— And I wish he were in Asia. My love runs by like a day in June, And he makes no friends of sorrows. He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon In the pathway of the morrows. He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start, Nor could storm or wind uproot him. My own dear love, he is all my heart,— And I wish somebody’d shoot him.

I lie here thinking of you:— the stain of love is upon the world! Yellow, yellow, yellow it eats into the leaves, smears with saffron the horned branches that lean heavily against a smooth purple sky! There is no light only a honey-thick stain that drips from leaf to leaf and limb to limb spoiling the colors of the whole world— you far off there under the wine-red selvage of the west!

There is a strong wall about me to protect me: It is built of the words you have said to me. There are swords about me to keep me safe: They are the kisses of your lips. Before me goes a shield to guard me from harm: It is the shadow of your arms between me and danger. All the wishes of my mind know your name, And the white desires of my heart They are acquainted with you. The cry of my body for completeness, That is a cry to you. My blood beats out your name to me, unceasing, pitiless Your name, your name.