love poetry

SOMEBODY'S sent a funny little valentine to me.
It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree,
And hovering above them — just as cute as he can be —
Is a fairy cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.

And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in his glee,
With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most unerringly
At a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and see
That one is meant for " One Who Loves, " and one is meant for me.
But I know the lad who sent it! It's as plain as A-B-C! —

" Now who shall say he loves me not. "

HE wooed her first in an atmosphere
Of tender and low-breathed sighs;
But the pang of her laugh went cutting clear
To the soul of the enterprise;
" You beg so pert for the kiss you seek
It reminds me, John, " she said,
" Of a poodle pet that jumps to " speak"
For a crumb or a crust of bread. "

And flashing up, with the blush that flushed
His face like a tableau-light,
Came a bitter threat that his white lips hushed
To a chill, hoarse-voiced " Good night! "

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK , 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree;
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth
'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,

The water sings along our keel,
The wind falls to a whispering breath;
I look into your eyes and feel
No fear of life or death;
So near is love, so far away
The losing strife of yesterday.

We watch the swallow skim and dip;
Some magic bids the world be still;
Life stands with finger upon lip;
Love hath his gentle will;
Though hearts have bled, and tears have burned,
The river floweth unconcerned.

We pray the fickle flag of truce
Still float deceitfully and fair;

1.

" Wake up, wake up, you drowsy sleeper,
Wake up, wake up, it's almost day;
How can you bear to sleep and slumber
When your own true love is going away? "

2.

" Who's this, who's this at my bedroom window,
Calling so earnestly for me? "
" Lie low, lie low, it's your own true lover;
Awake, arise, and pity me.

3.

" O love, go and ask your mother
If my bride you ever can be;
And if she says no, come back and tell me,
It's the very last time I'll trouble thee. "

4.

A VIEWLESS thing is the wind,
But its strength is mightier far
Than a phalanxed host in battle line,
Than the limbs of a Samson are.

And a viewless thing is Love,
And a name that vanisheth;
But her strength is the wind's wild strength above,
For she conquers shame and Death.

Be still, thou busy foolish thing,
Nor urge me more of her to sing
Who [caused] all thy pain.
Why wilt thou dwell upon a theme
Which serves but to increase your [flame],
That still must burn in vain?

Thus to my heart I oft have said,
But as the dear enchanting maid
Has seized my soul entire,
My reason with my love combined
Is grown to every danger blind,
And joins to fan the fire.

Why pay we to the pow'rs above
Our adoration and our love,
But that they perfect are?

So well I love thee, as without thee I
Love nothing; if I might choose, I'd rather die
Than be one day debarr'd thy company.

Since beasts, and plants do grow, and live and move,
Beasts are those men, that such a life approve:
He only lives, that deadly is in love.

The corn that in the ground is sown first dies
And of one seed do many ears arise:
Love, this world's corn, by dying multiplies.

The seeds of love first by thy eyes were thrown
Into a ground untill'd, a heart unknown

O would that enemy I dread, my fate,
Place me with you in some obscure retreat,
My wishes then would have their utmost bound,
And all I want in your dear arms be found.
By Love's soft passion willingly betrayed,
I'd court the idol which great Love has made,
Thy lovely face, my fancy's only joy,
Whose smiles revive me, and whose frowns destroy.
Yet you, too cruel to the truest heart
That ever loved you, hence resolve to part,
And leave me in return of all my love
A pain which no physician can remove,

Who last shall kiss the lips of love, when love is dead?
Who last shall fold her hands and pillow soft her head?
Who last shall vigil keep beside her lonely bier?
I ask, and from the dark, cold height without, I hear
The mystic answer: " I, her mother, Earth, shall press
Her lips the last, in my infinite tenderness. "