love poetry

I.

O would some fortune favour thee
To my desire, to my desire;
I 'd wish for thee a heart at ease
From gnawing fire, from gnawing fire.
For discontent howe'er divine
Its passion be, its passion be,
To human kind 'tis bitter care —
I 'd shield it thee, I 'd shield it thee.

II.

O may thy life in gentle ways
Run smoothly on, run smoothly on,
And thy dear hand be helping still

" Oh, where have you been, my bonny lad? "
" Oh, I have been up at the fair, my boys,
With a hack to sell,
And I cheated a swell,
And all for the love of the Gipsy boys! "

" Oh, where have you been, my pretty maid? "
" Oh, I have been up at the town, my boys;
And a fortune I've told,
And this chicken behold,
Which I stole for the love of the Gipsy boys! "

" Oh, where have you been, old mother, to-day? "
" Oh, I have been up at the farm, my boys;
And I needn't say how
I poisoned a sow,

The love of black-eyed maids, indeed, Forth of my pate will nowise go;
This is heav'n's ordinance and it On other gate will nowise go.

The spy stirred trouble up and strife And left no place for peace-making:
Sure, the dawn-risers' sighs unheard At heaven's gate will nowise go!

Time Unbegun, no lot to me, But that of toping, They ordained:
Each earthly lot, save as that day Foreordinate, will nowise go.

A privy place and ruby wine, A loving friend to cupbearer;
It better, heart, for thee, than this Thy now estate, will nowise go.

Lakka-trees ripen two by two
And mandarin-ducks die side by side.
If a true-hearted girl will love only her husband,
In a life as faithfully lived as theirs,
What troubling wave can arrive to vex
A spirit like water in a timeless well?

I saw a damsel in a sombre room,
Laid low in beds of purple violet,
And pale, sweet roses scenting all the gloom;
And then I thought, This is a gray sunset
Of days of loving life. Shall he who stands
Beside her bier, in sorrow for his love,
Be first in Heaven to clasp her gentle hands
To bow with her before the Lord above?

If love can die, let my heart be as cold
As Galatea's was before the words

The soul to life inclining, Without the Loved One's grace, hath not:
Who hath not this, that , certes, In any time or place hath not.

A trace of yon heart-seizer In none alive have I beheld;
'Tis or that I no insight Or else that she a trace hath not

The station of contentment Unmeet it were from hand to give;
Light down, o camel-driver; For end this way of chase hath not.

Each dewdrop on this highway's An hundred seas of fire. Alack
That answer or solution Th'enigma of Love's case hath not!

As from the toil and turmoil of the world
I come to bring good fortune or defeat,
And once again your loving eyes to meet,
Then droops the rest, like a lone banner furled
By idle winds; for all my thoughts are whirled
Toward you, like a cloud of swallows fleet;
And all the cares that follow at my feet
Like wraiths against the darkness back are hurled.

Home is where love is, and no doubt can pierce
That inner space where you and I do dwell,
Nor cast a lurking shadow on its floor;

Hark to the harp and the ghittern, What notification they make;
" In secret drink wine, lest in public Of thee reprobation they make. "

The honour of Love and the glory Of lovers they ravish away;
Youth sorry with chiding and manhood With vilification they make.

Quoth they, " Speak ye not of Love's myst'ries Nor hearken to speech thereof. "
Nay, marry, it is a hard saying, Whereof promulgation they make!

Withoutside the door of the Loved One, We're gulled with an hundred deceits:

In days to come, when we are old and gray
Bent with the years and disciplined by Time,
Trembling and feeble we will scan this rhyme
Whose light for us has almost dimmed away,
And haply then remember, if we may,
Some sweet suggestion of our youth sublime,
Some keen reminder which like bruised thyme
Shall bring the memory of our Summer day.

There is no life but loving; naught but Youth
To make love perfect; when the rose-leaves fall
The perfume withers, while the birds are dumb.
And thus indeed I could in very truth

( FROM THE ITALIAN OF ST. FRANCIS D'ASSISI .)

Our Lord Speaks:

And though I fill thy heart with warmest love,
Yet in true order must thy heart love me;
For without order can no virtue be.
By thine own virtue, then, I, from above
Stand in thy soul; and so, most earnestly,
Must love from turmoil be kept wholly free.
The life of fruitful trees, the seasons of
The circling year, move gently as a dove.
I measured all the things upon the earth;
Love ordered them, and order kept them fair,