love poetry

I love the bright bold birdling wild,
The big tame social frog,
That oft have lonely hours beguiled
Beside me on the log.

I love the cat that rubs my cheek
In trustful confidence,
The big brown horse so old and weak
Beside my garden fence.

The simple joys are always best,
They leave no after sting,
They give to life the healthy zest
That joy was meant to bring.

And what are worldy riches worth
The wealthiest must know,
They come from earth and go to earth,
Just where we all must go.

Dear face — bright, glinting hair;
Dear life, whose heart is mine —
The thought of you is prayer,
The love of you divine.

In starlight, or in rain;
In the sunset's shrouded glow;
Ever, with joy or pain,
To you my quick thoughts go

Like winds or clouds, that fleet
Across the hungry space
Between, and find you, sweet,
Where life again wins grace.

Now, as in that once young
Year that so softly drew
My heart to where it clung,
I long for, gladden in you.

Not a woman, child, or man in
All this isle, that loves thee, C[anni]ng.
Fools, whom gentle manners sway,
May incline to C[astlerea]gh,
Princes, who old ladies love,
Of the Doctor may approve,
Chancery lads do not abhor
Their chatty, childish Chancellor.
In Liverpool some virtues strike,
And little Van's beneath dislike.
Tho, if I were to be dead for't,
I could never love thee, H[eadfor]t:
(Every man must have his way)
Other grey adulterers may.
But thou unamiable object, —

TAKEN AFTER HE WAS DEAD .

As gathered flowers, while their wounds are new,
Look gay and fresh, as on the stalk they grew;
Torn from the root that nourished them, awhile
(Not taking notice of their fate) they smile,
And, in the hand which rudely plucked them, show
Fairer than those that to their autumn grow;
So love and beauty still that visage grace;
Death cannot fright them from their wonted place.
Alive, the hand of crooked Age had marred
Those lovely features, which cold death has spared.

And did you think my heart
Could keep its love unchanging,
Fresh as the buds that start
In spring, nor know estranging?
Listen! The buds depart:
I loved you once, but now —
I love you more than ever.

'T is not the early love;
With day and night it alters,
And onward still must move
Like earth, that never falters
For storm or star above.
I loved you once; but now —
I love you more than ever.

With gifts in those glad days
How eagerly I sought you!

WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS .

O MAY I hope that every tear
May be a beam of bliss above!
And every silent suffering here,
A precious pledge of heavenly love.

Then will I calmly bear my pain,
The piercing pain that wrings my breast;
Nor any sorrow think in vain,
That ends in everlasting rest.

WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS .

O MAY I hope that every tear

CHLORIS .

HYLAS , oh Hylas! why sit we mute,
Now that each bird saluteth the spring
Wind up the slack'ned strings of thy lute,
Never canst thou want matter to sing;
For love thy breast does fill with such a fire,
That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.

HYLAS .

Sweetest! you know, the sweetest of things
Of various flowers the bees do compose;
Yet no particular taste it brings
Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rose;
So love the result is of all the graces
Which flow from a thousand several faces.

Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek,
Paddle the swift caique.
Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek,
Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores,
Swift bending to your oars.
Beneath the melancholy sycamores,
Hark! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul pours.

Behold! the bows seem quivering with delight,
The stars themselves more bright,
As 'mid the waving branches out of sight
The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night.

" O LOVE , whom I so love, in this sore strait
Of thine, fall not! Below thy very feet
I kneel, so much I reverence thee, so sweet
It is to every pulse of mine to wait
Thy lightest pleasure, and to bind my fate
To thine by humblest service. Incomplete
All heaven, Love, if there thou dost not greet
Me, with perpetual need which I can sate,
I and no other! So I dare to pray
To thee this prayer. It is not wholly prayer.
The solemn worships of the ages lay
Even on God a solemn bond. I dare, —

FOR THE DRAMA OF " THE SPY. "

The harp of love, when first I heard
Its song beneath the moonlight tree,
Was echoed by his plighted word,
And ah, how dear its song to me;
But wailed the hour will ever be
When to the air the bugle gave,
To hush love's gentle minstrelsy,
The wild war music of the brave.

For he hath heard its song, and now
Its voice is sweeter than mine own;