love poem

I ask not what shadow came over her heart
In the moment I thought her my own —
If love in that moment could really depart,
I mourn not such love when 'tis flown.
I ask not what shadow came over her then,
What doubt did her bosom appal,
For I know where her heart will turn truly again,
If it ever turn truly at all!

It is not at once that the reed-bird takes wing,
When the tide rises high round her nest,
But again and again, floating back, she will sing
O'er the spot where her love-treasures rest:

I know thou dost love me — ay! frown as thou wilt,
And curl that beautiful lip,
Which I never can gaze on without the guilt
Of burning its dew to sip:
I know that my heart is reflected in thine,
And, like flowers that over a brook incline,
They toward each other dip.

Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light,
'Mid the careless, proud, and gay,
I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night,
And pilfer its thoughts away.
I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour,

Think not I love thee — by my word I do not!
Think not I love thee — for thy love I sue not!
And yet, I fear, there's hardly one that weareth
Thy beauty's chains, who like me for thee careth!
Who joys like me when in thy joy believing —
Who like me grieves when thou dost seem but grieving?
But, though I charms so perilous eschew not,
Think not I love thee — trust me that I do not!

Think not I love thee! — pr'ythee why so coy, then?
Doth it thy maiden bashfulness annoy, then?
Sith the heart's homage still will be up-welling,

Oh! how could my heart so falsely gauge,
Singing that more than now I could not love thee!
Others, like me, may, at thy budding age,
Hold every feeling in sweet vassalage
Unto thy charms. But I — by all above me! —
Will prove thee suzerain of my soul more nearly;
When Time his arts shall 'gainst thy beauty wage,
To break their serfdom — serving thee more dearly.

Mark how the sunset, with its parting hues,

I will love her no more! — 'tis a waste of the heart,
This lavish of feeling — a prodigal's part —
Who, heedless, the treasure a life could not earn
Squanders forth where he vainly may look for return.

I will love her no more — it is folly to give
Our best years to one, when for many we live.
And he who the world will thus barter for one,
I ween, by such traffic must soon be undone.

I will love her no more — it is heathenish thus
To bow to an idol which bends not to us;

As he who, on some clouded night,
When wind and tide attend his bark,
Waits for the North star's steady light
To shine above the waters dark,
Will often for its guiding beam
Mistake some wandering meteor's ray;
But wilder'd by that fitful gleam
Doubt yet to launch upon the stream,
Till wind and tide have passed away, —

So I, if ever Life's dark sea
Be swept by some propitious gale,
Look for my guiding light in thee,
Before I dare to spread my sail;
So, while thy smiles deceitful shine,

Well! call it Friendship! have I asked for more,
Even in those moments when I gave the most?
'Twas but for thee I looked so far before!
I saw thy bark was hurrying blindly on,
A guideless thing upon a dangerous coast, —
With thee, — with thee, where would I not have gone?
But could I see thee drift upon the shore,
Unknowing drift, upon a shore unknown?
Yes, call it Friendship, and let no revealing,
If Love be there, e'er make Love's wild name heard,
It will not die, if it be worth concealing!

Tis hard to share her smiles with many!
And while she is so dear to me,
To fear that I, far less than any,
Call out her spirit's witchery!
To find my inmost heart when near her
Trembling at every glance and tone,
And feel the while each charm grow dearer
That will not beam for me alone.

How can she thus, sweet spendthrift, squander
The treasures one alone can prize?
How can her eyes to all thus wander,
When I but live in those sweet eyes?
Those syren tones so lightly spoken

Her heart is like a harp whose strings
At will are touched alike by all:
Her heart is like a bird that sings
In answer to each fowler's call.
That harp! — has it one secret tone
Reserved for master hands alone?
That bird! has it one soulful note
Which only toward its mate will float?

Let it not wile thy soul away,
That harp, with its beguiling touch;
Let not that bird's bewildering lay
Thrill through thy bosom over-much:
They'll cheat thine eyes of sleep to-night,
Yet find thee dreaming with the light

Tell her I love her — love her for those eyes
Now soft with feeling, radiant now with mirth,
Which, like a lake reflecting autumn skies,
Reveal two heavens here to us on earth —
The one in which their soulful beauty lies,
And that wherein such soulfulness has birth:
Go, autumn flower, before the season flies,
And the rude winter comes thy bloom to blast —
Go! and with all of eloquence thou hast,
The burning story of my love discover,
And if the theme should fail, alas! to move her,