love poetry

Is love, then, so simple, my dear?
The opening of a door,
And seeing all things clear?
I did not know before.

I had thought it unrest and desire
Soaring only to fall,
Annihilation and fire:
It is not so at all.

I feel no desperate will,
But I think I understand
Many things, as Isit quite still,
With Eternity in my hand.

IS IT a sin to love thee? Then my soul is deeply dyed,
For my lifeblood, as it gushes, takes its crimson from love's tide;
And I feel its waves roll o'er me and the blushes mount my brow
And my pulses quicken wildly, as the love dreams come and go:
I feel my spirit's weakness; I know my spirit's power;
I have felt my proud heart struggle in temptation's trying hour;
Yet, amid the din of conflict, bending o'er life's hallowed shrine,
Yielding all, my soul had murmured, I am thine, forever thine!

In your quest or request God is remote.
Yet He alone can be your anchor and your space,
the pulse and the parts,
the vine and the separation.

If God were a man, I would touch His robe
and burn into Him.
If He were a man, I would kiss His feet
and kneel or lie before Him.
I would cry, bleed, die ...
But He is not a man,
not a body.

You yourself are God because He made you,
classified you, gifted you and sailed within you.
You yourself are God because He sees you,
knows you, speaks to you,

In times like these, when widows, orphans weep,
When Gallia's helpless sons in exile roam,
Wide spreads the civil flame with threatening sweep,
And every Briton trembles for his home;
While fury kindles in plebeian minds,
With frenzy stung to gnaw and rend their chain,
While tyrant power that chain still faster binds,
Slow to concede and stubborn to retain;
In times like these, when fierce contentions rise,

— — I N the years about twenty
— — (When kisses are plenty)
The love of an Irish lass fell to my fate —
— — So winsome and sightly,
— — So saucy and sprightly,
The priest was a prophet that christened her Kate.

— — Soft gray of the dawning,
— — Bright blue of the morning,
The sweet of her eye there was nothing to mate;
— — A nose like a fairy's,
— — A cheek like a cherry's,
And a smile — well, her smile was like — nothing but Kate.

— — To see her was passion,

In the wild autumn weather, when the rain was on the sea,
And the boughs sobbed together, Death came and spake to me:
" Those red drops of thy heart I have come to take from thee;
As the storm sheds the rose, so thy love shall broken be, "
Said Death to me.

Then I stood straight and fearless while the rain was in the wave,
And I spake low and tearless: " When thou hast made my grave,
Those red drops from my heart then thou shalt surely have;
But the rose keeps its bloom, as I my love will save
All for my grave. "

I'm called by the name of a man,
Yet am as little as a mouse;
When winter comes I love to be
With my red target near the house.

1

I F when Don Cupid's dart
Doth wound a heart,
We hide our grief
And shun relief,
The smart increaseth on that score;
For wounds unsearcht but rankle more.

2

Then if we whine, look pale,
And tell our tale,
Men are in pain
For us again;
So, neither speaking doth become
The lover's state, nor being dumb.

If Love were jester at the court of Death,
And Death the king of all, still would I pray,
" For me the motley and the bauble, yea,
Though all be vanity, as the Preacher saith,
The mirth of love be mine for one brief breath! "
Then would I kneel the monarch to obey,
And kiss that pale hand, should it spare or slay;
Since I have tasted love, what mattereth!
But if, dear God, this heart be dry as sand,
And cold as Charon's palm holding Hell's toll,
How worse! how worse! Scorch it with sorrow's brand!