love poetry

1. O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind There weeps a strain, Low,
2. And wake a whitewinged angel throng Of thought, illumed By
sad, and sweet, whose measures bind The power of pain,
faith, and breathed in raptured song, With love perfumed.

3. Then His unveiled, sweet mercies show
Life's burdens light.
I kiss the cross, and wake to know
A world more bright.

4. And o'er earth's troubled, angry sea
I see Christ walk,
And come to me, and tenderly,
Divinely talk.

5. Thus Truth engrounds me on the rock,

O thou, whose eyes were closed in death's pale night,
Ere fate revealed thee to my aching sight;
Ambiguous something, by no standard fixed,
Frail span, of naught and of existence mixed;
Embryo, imperfect as my tort'ring thought,
Sad outcast of existence and of naught;
Thou, who to guilty love first ow'st thy frame,
Whom guilty honour kills to hide its shame;
Dire offspring! formed by love's too pleasing pow'r!
Honour's dire victim in a luckless hour!
Soften the pangs that still revenge thy doom:

Foolish Lover, go and seek
For the damask of the Rose,
And the Lilies white dispose
To adorn thy mistresse cheek.

Steal some star out of the sky,
Rob the Phoenix, and the East
Of her wealthy sweets devest
To enrich her breath or eye.

We thy borrow'd pride despise,
For this wine (to which we are
Votaries) is richer farre
Then her cheek, or breath, or eyes.

And should that coy Fair one view
These diviner beauties, she
In this flame would rivall thee,

1. O Love that lights the eastern sky And shrouds the evening rest;
2. O life, content beneath the blue! Or, if God will the gray,
From out whose hand the swallows fly, Within whose heart they nest!
Then tranquil yet, till light breaks through To melt the mist away!

3. O death that sails so close to shore
At twilight! From my gate
I scan the darkening sea once more,
And for its message wait.

4. What lies beyond the afterglow?
To life's new dawn how far?
As if an answer, spoken low,
Love lights the evening star.

O God, I love thee, I love thee —
Not out of hope of heaven for me
Nor fearing not to love and be
In the everlasting burning.
Thou, thou, my Jesus, after me
Didst reach thine arms out dying,
For my sake sufferedst nails and lance,┬░
Mocked and marred countenance,
Sorrows passing number,
Sweat and care and cumber,
Yea and death, and this for me,
And thou couldst see me sinning:
Then I, why should not I love thee,
Jesu so much in love with me?
Not for heaven's sake; not to be

O Faithless World, and thy more faithless Part,
a womans heart!
The true shop of variety, where sits
nothing but fits
And feavers of desire, and pangs of love,
which toyes remove.
Why was she born to please, or I to trust
words writ in dust?
Suffering her Eys to govern my despair,
my pain for air;
And fruit of time rewarded with untruth,
the food of youth.
Untrue she was: yet, I beleev'd her eys
(instructed spies)
Till I was taught, that Love was but a scool
to breed a fool.

Now you have freely given me leave to love,
What will you do?
Shall I your mirth, or passion move,
When I begin to woo;
Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too?

Each petty beauty can disdain, and I
Spight of your hate
Without your leave can see, and die;
Dispence a nobler Fate!
Tis easie to destroy, you may create.

Then give me leave to love, & love me too
Not with designe
To raise, as Loves curst Rebels doe,
When puling Poets whine,
Fame to their beauty, from their blubbr'd eyn.

I

A novice when I came beneath thy gaze,
There was no wonder in mine eyes before
And no desire till I beheld thy grace.
Be thou benign to young hands folded where
I pray to be thy servant evermore.
And with long-suffering compassion spare
The feet still faltering on alien ways.

II

Now that my lips are very still and burn
Do I behold whither have gone my feet:
Into a splendid realm for others meet.
Ah, yet perchance it was the hour to turn,

November is a spinner
Spinning in the mist,
Weaving such a lovely web
Of gold and amethyst.
In among the shadows
She spins till close of day,
Then quietly she folds her hands
And puts her work away.

Not ours the vows of such as plight
— Their troth in sunny weather,
While leaves are green, and skies are bright,
— To walk on flowers together.

But we have loved as those who tread
— The thorny path of sorrow,
With clouds above, and cause to dread
— Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.

That thorny path, those stormy skies,
— Have drawn our spirits nearer;
And rendered us, by sorrow's ties,
— Each to the other dearer.

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth,
— With mirth and joy may perish;