love poetry

Not for the Stage,—nay, thou art made for higher regions!
What hath the rose to say to lesser pale flower-legions?
What hath the stainless air
To say to wreaths of cloud that linger in the valley?
When round about thy path the gold-winged angels rally
Wilt thou be less than they, who art more fair?

Thou art a poet's love. Be worthy of thy poet.
Rise to thy woman's height: abjure not, nor forego it,
The whiteness of thy soul.
Lo! there are thousands left to seek the valley-fountains:

It surely must be sweet
To be loved, sweetheart, as my soul loves thee?
It must make yet more blue the bluest sea,
More swift the summer's feet!
It must make every tender flower beside
The river thou dost seek
Smile almost, almost speak:
It must add radiance to the water wide.

It must make every day
More beautiful, my beauty, unto thee:
I have not lived for nothing if through me
Love doth his gifts convey.

It must make, surely, all a woman's soul

Help thou me with my Art!
That thus the beauty which I worship so
May flush the world's sad cheeks with summer glow
And comfort many a heart.

Clear is our duty high.
Thou hast the gift of beauty; I can sing;
We have to bless the wintry world with spring
And sunlight, thou and I.

Help me the world to teach.
Teach me all lessons gracious with thine eyes:
Be ever, love, the most divine surprise
That e'er moved songful speech.

Teach me love's secrets deep.

I.

When thou didst speak of death, it seemed to me
The only death would be the loss of thee.

It is not death that hurts, nor wounds nor pain;
This would be death—to see no more again

Thine eyes. There is no other death for me
Now left, O loved one, than the loss of thee.

II.

For I have so completely lost in thine
My life, that now it seemeth no more mine

But just a life that floweth, love, through thee,

I.

If I can love thee with supreme devotion,
Wilt thou love me,
And mingle with my heart's wild throbbing ocean
Thy silver glee?

II.

Lo! love is ne'er content. Love longeth ever
Itself to bring.
Love's one despair is this—that it can never
Its whole soul fling

III.

Down at the loved one's feet. How small and grievous
The gifts we make!
Slight piteous wreaths Time's grudging slow hands weave us,

My Queen

I.

Of all girls' faces sweet and very fair
There is but one
I love.—Can all the stars that gild the air
Put out the sun?

II.

Can all the flowers that fill the garden-bed
Dismay the rose?
Nay! Love's hand only over one sweet head
His glory throws.

III.

There are fair flowers and faces—that I know—
Many to see.
But only one whose beauty lays me low;

Not love that shifts and veers, not love that wanes and passes,
Not love wherewith the light wind woos the fickle grasses
In summer on the lea;
Not love such as the love the wayward springtide brings us
Nor likened to the love June's laughing sweet hand flings us,—
Not such love bring I thee!

I know each passing gleam, each fleeting shadow and light
Within thine eyes, or on thy face or forehead white,
And long—God knows I long!—
To hold thee for mine own: and yet I love thee more

I.

I raised my arms to heaven in agony
 And cried out wildly, “Frail are women fair!
 Their love is as a breath of sunlit air
Or white cloud floating o'er a summer sea.
What is her passion of soul compared to me,
 Me—for the storm-wreaths nestle in my hair
 And I the inexorable anguish bear
Of one whose love outstrips eternity.

“Her love is measured by the sands of time,—
 But mine is as the mountains or the stars:
 It snaps all manacles, it laughs at bars,

Truly it is a deed presumptuous, very daring,
Thus to devise in song a golden frame, preparing
To set therein thy face:
It is as if God gave the rough stern wind the power
To sing for evermore the soul of some white flower
 And this flower's soul before the world to place.

The task is very large.—Love, give thy singer passion
Pure as the sea and sun, that pure strong words may fashion
A frame wherein to place ,
So that the world may see (and never, having met it

On one side youth and beauty infinite
 And on the other weariness extreme
 Of life and life's long spirit-torturing dream
And of the vain wild search for vain delight.
On one side eyes the sun's own glance made bright
 But on the other eyes through which there gleam
 The eyes of sorrows numberless,—no beam
Of sun being there by day, nor moon by night.

When this is so, could any end but one
 Be reached,—could either flee the certain goal,
This —that the weary night should love the sun;