love poetry

(Earlier Version)

Like lights that pass, each motion of the mind
Flies through the world, seeking its fellow thought;
And if but in the twinkling of his days
A man shall chance to meet the kindred one —
Then happiness! No more he needs to burn
Beside the fire of dearth that pipe, whose smoke
Prays to the heedless stars of lonely men.

Then in a rare and wonderful abode
Where wit comes not, and thinking has no part,
A tender comedy is played and played,

Friend, whose smile has come to be
Very precious unto me,
Though I know I drank not first
Of your love's bright fountain-burst,
Yet I grieve not for the past,
So you only love me last!

Other souls may find their joy
In the blind love of a boy:
Give me that which years have tried,
Disciplined and purified, —
Such as, braving sun and blast,
You will bring to me at last!

There are brows more fair than mine,
Eyes of more bewitching shine,
Other hearts more fit, in truth,

I.

Alex. There sighs not on the Plain
So lost a Swain as I;
Scorcht't up with Love, frozen with Disdain.
Of killing Sweetness I complain.
Streph. If 'tis Corinna , die.

II.

Since first my dazled Eyes were thrown
On that bewitching Face,
Like ruin'd Birds, rob'd of their Young,
Lamenting, frighted, and alone,
I fly from place to place.

III.

Fram'd by some Cruel Powers above,

Now,
Like the pines intoning
Though some solitary gloom,
My errant thoughts go pattering
About love's ancient tomb,
And though no breath of incense rare
Lies round the shattered cup,
A banquet weird, the fragments
Where the ghost of love

When love is dead, draw thou the lattice close,
Shut out the world with all its blare and din;
Rain down the petals of the faded rose,
Lest pity enter in.

When love is dead, weave thou a checkered pall
Of broken promises and faith unkept,
And in the twilight when the soft dews fall,
Thy heart shall know Love wept.

The bee shall drown his homely, humming note
Upon thine ear, until thy day shall pass;
The woodbird shall reproach thee from the moat,
And things that throng the grass.

A LOVE POEM .

The scorn of the nations is bitter,
But the touch of a hand is warm.

Is it not pleasant to wander
In town on Saturday night,
While people go hither and thither,
And shops shed cheerful light?
And, arm in arm, while our shadows
Chase us along the panes,
Are we not quite as cozy
As down among country lanes?

Nobody knows us, heeds us,
Nobody hears or sees,
And the shop-lights gleam more gladly
Than the moon on hedges and trees;
And people coming and going,

This is the place, as husht and dead
As when I saw it long ago;
Down the dark walk with shadows spread
I wander slow.

The tangled sunlight, cold and clear,
Steals frost-white through the boughs around.
There is no warmth of summer here,
No summer sound.
Darnet and nettle, as I pass,
Choke the dim ways, and in the bowers
Gather the weeds and the wild grass
Instead of flowers.

O life! O time! O days that die!
O days that live within the mind!
Here did we wander, she and I,
Together twined.

" Thank you — much obliged, old boy.
Yes, it's so; report says true.
I'm engaged to Nell Latine —
What else could a fellow do?

Governor was getting fierce;
Asked me, with paternal frown,
When I meant to go to work,
Take a wife, and settle down.
Stormed at my extravagance,
Talked of cutting off supplies —
Fairly bullied me, you know —
Sort of thing that I despise.

An autumn sky, a pleasant weather,
The asters blossom by the way;
We two between them walk together,
And watch the ships pass on the bay.

His summer song yet to the clover,
The hovered bee still murmurs there,
But there's that tells that summer's over
In this sweet dreamy autumn air.

When it was May and lovely weather,
And ships went sailing to the west,
We walked this path, we two together,
With happy throbs of heart and breast.

The spring was young and hope was growing,
And love went idling on the sand,

The lovely May has come at last,
With songs and gleaming dews,
And apple blossoms bursting out
With evanescent hues.

A newer life, a newer charm
Is bursting every hour,
With pledge and faithful promises,
From leaf and bud and flower.

And hope is growing on the hill,
And blooming in the vale,
And comes new vigor and new life
On every passing gale.

But O my heart! my heart of hearts,
What hope is there for me,
For what was hope and what was joy,
For me have ceased to be.