love poetry

Thou ask'st me why that thought of death
Should rise within our souls the same —
Why now, when dearer grows each breath
Of life, we shrink not at his name!
What is it, sweet, but faith in each
The other could not live alone?
What but the wish at once to reach
The land where change is never known?

As, parted here, we dare not think
Of wearying years to come between!
Nay, start not, love, as on the brink
Of what may be — as it hath been —
We only part like twin-born rays
Diverging from the morning sun,

Life seems to thee more earnest, dearest!
And is it not the same with me?
Why, sweet, each shadow that thou fearest
To me becomes reality —
A thought — a pang to mar my gladness,
And cloud my brow with tender sadness —
And all of loving thee!

The jest from which thou often turnest
Is only love's fond thoughtful guile,
And comes from heart in love most earnest
When it would make thee smile —
Is but the stream's bright circles breaking
Beneath thy blessed tear-drops — waking

Nay, plead not thou art dull to-night,
When I can see the tear-drop stealing,
Soft witness to love's watchful sight,
Some lurking grief within revealing.
Wouldst thou so cheat the friend thou lovest
Of half the wealth he owns in thee?
Why, sweet one, by that smile thou provest
Thy tears as well belong to me!
Ah, tears again! — well, let them flow,
In tenderness thus flow for ever,
Those last upon my breast I know
Fresh from affection's fruitful river.
What! smiles once more! — Sweet April wonder,

My life's whole pilgrimage have I not told —
Mapping my Past before those loving eyes,
With such minuteness that they might behold
Each hair-line of my soul, without disguise?
Was Truth not woven, every line acrost —
An iron thread through silver subtleties
Of Fancy or of Feeling, howe'er gloss'd?
Was Faith not there, at rein or helm the while,
A guide, a check, for fancy's luring smile,
A guide, a check, for feeling passion-toss'd?
Oh, how then, now, can thought of me so vile,

I waited for thee — but all restless waited,
For soul like mine, it ever must be moving;
I knew one spirit with my own was mated,
Yet I mistook that restlessness for loving:
Of mine own nature an ideal created,
And loved because I only thus was fated.
Fated, bewilder'd thus in thought and feeling,
To waste the freshness of my soul away,
To see each bud of spring in turn revealing
But canker'd blooms upon a fruitless spray, —
Why marvel then in prayer I oft am kneeling,
Sweet minister of grace! to bless thy spirit-healing?

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;