love poetry

The fairy poet takes a sheet
Of moonbeam, silver white;
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
His pen a point of light.

My love I know is fairer far
Than his, (though she is fair,)
And we should dwell where fairies are —
For I could praise her there.

I

What is love of one's land? ...
I don't know very well.
It is something that sleeps
For a year, for a day,
For a month — something that keeps
Very hidden and quiet and still,
And then takes
The quiet heart like a wave,
The quiet brain like a spell,
The quiet will
Like a tornado; and that shakes
The whole of the soul.

II

It is omnipotent like love;

Some tell of Thebes and some relate
Of Phrygian wars the conflicts dire;
But I, who feel no martial fire,
A captive, glory in my fate.

Of fleets victorious am I
No slave; nor yet an army's prize:
My conquerors they are the sly
Foes darting fires from my love's eyes.

Like a child engrossed in play, you sit, young mother, by the cradle, and your mock-serious face looks so childishly charming, childishly charming the face and childlike blue the eyes .
With smile-wreathed lips sleeps the child in the cradle; it is also time for the little lovely mother to retire ... Yet the little, lovely mother with her head nods: nay ...

She could have loved — her woman-passions beat
Deeper than theirs, or else she had not known
How to have dropped her heart beneath their feet
A living stepping-stone:

The little hands — did they not clutch her heart?
The guarding arms — was she not very tired?
Was it an easy thing to walk apart,
Unresting, undesired?

She gave away her crown of woman-praise,
Her gentleness and silent girlhood grace

Among all the millions of human eyes the chosen pair in sweetness. Smooth hair, fragrant like soul — and above it the aureole of love.
A forehead, clear as a child's thought, and hands that never did caress me yet, and lips, where only truth is spoken and where every word is sweet song.
And in the two-and-twenty year old breast a heart that knew of no sin, and where the breath of the god of love daily writes anew his Tenth Commandment.
And in the blessed, deep heart a stream of pity for my sea of pain.

Brownstone the house, the balconies blue; there lives a lady, a lovely little lady. Lilac is her gown, love her words and joy: blue ringlets on crystal mirrors. O lady mine, lady of time a-gone .
Lilac silk the gown and vine brocade the trail; blue ribbons in the curly flaxen braids; white fingers among the coral strings — white little daggers in her heart for me. And words: blue ringlets on crystal mirrors. O lady mine, lady of time a-gone .

I will not make a sonnet from
Each little private martyrdom;
Nor out of love left dead with time
Construe a stanza or a rhyme.

We do not suffer to afford
The searched for and the subtle word:
There is too much that may not be
At the caprice of prosody.

I

Love looked back as he took his flight,
And lo, his eyes were filled with tears.
Was it for love of lost delight
Love looked back as he took his flight?
Only I know while day grew night,
Turning still to the' vanished years,
Love looked back as he took his flight,
And lo, his eyes were filled with tears.

II

If you were Lady Beatrice
And I the Florentine,
I 'd never waste my time like this —

I

There is no one beside thee, and no one above thee;
Thou standest alone, as the nightingale sings!
And my words that would praise thee are impotent things,
For none can express thee, though all should approve thee.
I love thee so, dear, that I only can love thee.

II

Say, what can I do for thee? Weary thee, grieve thee?
Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens to add?