love poetry

Was it the voice of the Spring or the voice of my love that called me
Out of the boughs of the birch-tree snowy with moonbeams?

Ah, it was sweet like the chant of a bee seeking honey,
Culling the nectar of dreams from a blossomy bosom!

Was it the face of the Spring or the face of my love that smiled on me,
Silvery pleading that swooned on the sea-scented breeze?

Ah, she was fair as a daffodil, golden, shimmering,
Her throat like a calyx woven of wonderful star-kisses!

As one who faring o'er a desert plain
Sees fountains clear in the mirage arise,
And, parched, longs the nectar sweet to gain
Which still before him flies —
So, wistfully, half doubting, half-believing,
Scornful of hope — yet hopeful, self-deceiving,
I thirst for love, which wastes before my eyes.

ASPHODEL

The children played at naming, every one
Her favorite blossom, in the mild June even;
When, at the last, the others having done,
A little maid — her years but numbered seven —

Stood shyly forth and answered in her turn:
" Pale violets I love, — and love full well
Red poppies, which the elves for torches burn, —
But for my own I choose — the asphodel."

I.

A lover often has been blessed
With a soft hand in secret pressed,
Or with a glance, or with a sigh,
Or with some other foolery
Of silent love.
II.

And should the nymph with roseate charms
Glide through night's darkness to his arms,
Nestling there while Scandal sleeps,
Sweet are the joys till daylight peeps
Of silent love.

III.

But bitter are the lover's woes

While pensive I thought on my love,
The moon on the mountain was bright;
And Philomel down in the grove
Broke sweetly the silence of night.

Oh, I wished that the tear-drop would flow!
But I felt too much anguish to weep;
Till, worn with the weight of my woe,
I sunk on my pillow to sleep.

Methought that my love as I lay,
His ringlets all clotted with gore,
In the paleness of death seemed to say,
" Alas! we must never meet more!

" Yes, yes, my beloved! we must part;

A WILD wind blows from out the angry sky
And all the clouds are tossed like thistle-down
Above the groaning branches of the trees;
For on this steel-cold night the earth is stirred
To shake away its rottenness; the leaves
Are shed like secret unremembered sins
In the great scourge of the great love of God....

Ere I was learned in the ways of love
I looked for it in green and pleasant lands,
In apple orchards and the poppy fields,
And peered among the silences of woods,
And meditated the shy notes of birds

SWEET IS THE BIRTH OF LOVE

Sweet is the birth of love, and the awaking,
The bashful dream, the faltering desire,
The vision fair — of all fair things partaking —
The wonder, the communicable fire:
Sweet is the need to give and to obtain, —
And sweet love's pain!

Love was a judge, and he held a court
With the culprit in the box.
He had flung him into his jail, — Despair, —
Close under double locks.

The crier cried, and the court began.
The attorney rose and said,
" The prisoner at the bar, my lord,
We charge, as shall be read. "

And he read a long indictment through,
That charged contempt of love.
" He has spoken slightingly of you,

When in thy folding arms I lie,
My head upon thy faithful breast,
I doubt not immortality,
But know I am forever blest.

Time then exists no more for me,
Nor measure years the orbs above:
I'm living in eternity, —
The deathless bliss of deathless love.

I.

Cruel Amynta , can you see
A Heart thus torn which you betray'd?
Love of himself ne'er vanquish'd me,
But thro' your Eyes the Conquest made.

II.

In Ambush there the Traitor lay,
Where I was led by faithless Smiles:
No Wretches are so lost as they,
Whom much Security beguiles.