love poetry

I HAVE no fear of thee,
That thou wilt swerve from me;
My feeling is so closely wound
About thy being, through, around,
I cannot fancy how
We two could part: canst thou?

Only in day-dreams do I dream of thee!
By day our Past moves ever by my side,
A mystic Presence of majestic mien,
In samite clad white as its stainless soul, —
And eyes like his who sought the Holy Grail.

By day, by day, O thou beloved and lost!
Under the hidden current of my life
The thought of thee runs ever, tingeing all
With its own color, even as the sky
Lends its own azure to the sleeping lake.

By day, by day, the soft airs breathe thy name;
The strong winds bear it on their mighty wings;

My grandam says to me:
" Judith, which would you rather be,
Light o' love in a lad's heart,
Or true woman, playing her part? "

I said, wild with young desire,
" I will not be a sit-by-the-fire,
No free bird houses him, lark or snipe,
But you sit chimney-side with a pipe. "

I flung my hair back,
And, with head high,
Danced forth out the door,
Lest I should cry.

Well I feared the lad I loved
Loved a blonde lass true,
And what against pale gold
Can a black head do?

I S it Nature? — Is it Art,
That can wind thee round my heart?
Where are now ( thy conquering arms)
Beauty's flame, and vernal charms?
Dimpled smiles, and blooming cheek,
That in love, though mute, could speak?
They are vanish'd — they are fled —
Still in fetters I am led;
Memory no more can tell,
Why in youth we lov'd so well;
Or describe the magic power,
That enchanted every hour?
All her shadows, in the air,
Of the parting ray despair.

T HE Judge, his ermine laid aside,
For happiness exchanging pride,
Of life's gay term renews the lease,
And plays at cribbage with his Niece .

'Tis true the Niece we here disclose
Is lovely as a new-born rose;
And Love could find a golden fleece,
If he should light on such a Niece .

The vestals of severe decorum,
A dish of scandal plac'd before 'em,
Have tongues that cannot rest in peace
Till they have stripp'd the Judge's Niece .

Whatever he can do or say,

" The Lyre to Heroes had been strung,
But Love alone the tune it sung;
Again 'twas Love; no other sound,
The Poet or the Minstrel found. "
Thus in her frolic Winter's day,
Anacreon's cheerful Muse could play;
But mine, which Agonies inspire,
Tunes with no other string the lyre;
Could Love himself the chords demand,
They would reject his impious hand;
Call'd in his name , but proudly mute,
The baffled insult would refute.

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

You were not cruel always! Nay,
When I said Come! one year ago:
Could you have lingered by the way?
Did not the very wind seem slow?

Then, had you tarried, I had known
Nor love's delight, nor lost love's pain:
Then, always had I lived alone.
Now, you need never come again.

I.

L OVE can wait!
Being so patient it is strong;
If in this world it wait in vain,
It surely shall not suffer long;
For in some other state,
Some life of larger scope,
It ultimately shall attain
The full fruition of its hope.
This is love's faith; defying fate,
Time, change, neglect and laughter,
It can wait

Where dwelleth Love? oh, tell me where!
In some dim region of delight,
Beyond the dayspring's golden bars,
Above the uttermost bright stars,
Far in the azure Infinite?
Oh, no! not there.

Is it in lands the poets know,
Where lovely shapes go up and down
Through vaulted glooms and flickering gleams,
In the pale, pictured hall of dreams,
To fairy music, faintly blown?
Oh, no! not so.

Dwelt she in happy Arcady,
With the Saturnian race of men,
Ere yet with wisdom, war and gold,