poems about love

Before the grass grew over me,
I knew one good man through and through
And knew a soul and body joined
Are stronger than the heavens are blue.

A wisdom worthy of thy joy,
O great heart, read I as I ran;
Now, though men smite me on the face,
I cannot curse the face of man.

I loved the man I saw yestreen
Hanged with his babe's blood on his palms.
I loved the man I saw to-day
Who knocked not when he came with alms.

Hush!—for thy sake I even faced
The knowledge that is worse than hell;

I hear that the peonies are magnificent
in the famous gardens now
and that rich families will be enjoying them
until spring is almost gone.
What a shame! I too am a man who loves to look at flowers
but I am much too busy, watering my vegetable patch!

I have desired, and I have been desired;
But now the days are over of desire,
Now dust and dying embers mock my fire;
Where is the hire for which my life was hired?
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Longing and love, pangs of a perished pleasure,
Longing and love, a disenkindled fire,
And memory a bottomless gulf of mire,
And love a fount of tears outrunning measure;
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Now from my heart, love's deathbed, trickles, trickles,
Drop by drop slowly, drop by drop of fire,

The womanhood of France is travestied,
Held up to scorn
By the lewd Art of France. Yet many a heart
In France is nobler than all Gallic Art:
Love hath not wholly died,
Though love may mourn

Though sweet-lipped harlots on the Gallic stage
Still hold their own,
Sweet-lipped, sweet-bosomed, but with hearts as black
And deadly as the midnight's moonless rack,
Yet Hugo thrilled the age
With sound as of a sudden trumpet blown.

Hugo, with Shakespeare's sweetness in his eyes,
And in his heart

Thou dost not know the numberless sweet heats
To whom the gentle knowledge of thee came
Through the soft messages my song imparts:
Thou dost not know how many gold-tipped darts,
Winged, beautiful, abundant, bright with flame,
My soul, on fire with loving thee, doth aim
Against the steel-bound cuirass of the world,
That so it might be pierced with utter shame,
In that it has not known and loved of old
The name that I from height to height have hurled.
There is not any flower, with heart of gold,

He had a falcon on his wrist,
A hound beside his knee,
A jewelled rapier at his thigh;
Quoth he: “Which may she be?
My chieftain cried: ‘Bear forth, my page,
This ring to Lady Clare;
Thou'lt know her by her sunny eyes
And golden lengths of hair.’
But here are lovely damsels three,
In glittering coif and veil,
And all have sunny locks and eyes,—
To which unfold the tale?”

Out spake the first: “O pretty page,
Thou hast a wealthy lord;
I love to see the jewels rare
Which deck thy slender sword!”

He stood beside her in the dawn—
And she his Dawn and she his Spring.
From her bright palm she fed her fawn,
Her swift eyes chased the swallow's wing;
Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast
Shrill silver calls to hound and dove;
Her young locks wove them with the blast.
To the flushed azure shrine above
The light boughs o'er her golden head
Tossed emerald arm and blossom palm;
The perfume of their prayer was spread
On the sweet wind in breath of balm.

“Dawn of my heart,” he said, “O child,

How moving, man and woman singing in one body!
She only hopes for divine aid, her heart out on the waves.
In the crazed anguish of the autumn wind, love's grass lies exposed;
ten thousand leagues of misty waves, the depth of her tears' traces.

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—
—The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
—We see him stand by the open door,
With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.

He makes as though in our arms repelling,
—He fain would lie as he lay before;—
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—
—The old, old Love that we knew of yore!

Ah, who shall keep us from over-spelling
—That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!
—E'ndash as we doubt in our hearts once more,
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,

1. Say “au revoir,” . . . . but not “good-bye,” . . . . For parting brings . . . . a bitter
sigh; The past is gone, . . . . though mem'ry gives One clinging
thought . . . . the future lives; Our duty first, . . . . love must not
lead, . . . . What might have been, . . . . had fate decreed; 'Twere better
far . . . . . had we not met, . . . . I loved you then, . . . . I love you yet. . . .
2. The waters glide, . . . . the oars lie still, . . . . A rippling laugh, . . . a word at
will: Where angels fear, . . . . fools dare to tread, Shall live for