love poem

Her eyes are brands that keep the angry heat
Of fire that crawls and leaves an ashen path.
The dust of this devouring flame she hath
Upon her cheeks and eyelids. Fresh and sweet
In days that were, her sultry beauty now
Is pain transfigured, love's impenitence,
The memory of a maiden innocence,
As a crown set upon a weary brow.

She sits, and fain would listen, fain forget;
She smiles, but with those tragic, waiting eyes,
Those proud and piteous lips that hunger yet
For love's fulfilment. Ah, when Landry cries

If there seem'd coldness in my glance,
Oh, could thy heart not read
I did but feign indifference,
That thou the more might'st plead!
If I confessed a doubt upon
The love Ifound so true,
Oh! 'twas not that I wish'd thee gone,
But that thou more wouldst woo!

'Twas sweet to have a thousand fears,
And each by thee removed;
'Twas bliss — 'twas music to my ears —

I TOLD you Roses ne'er would wed
Their bloom to wintry air;
But then, you press'd my lips, and said
The rose you loved bloom'd there! —
I said the wintry day was bare,
The sun far out of view;
You smiled, and vowed my golden hair
Was sunlight unto you!

I said the woods no more rejoice
With notes, more sweet than words;
But, oh, you whisper'd then, my voice
Was sweeter than the birds:
And still whatever charm I named
That lends to Spring delight,
You, for your own loved maiden, claim'd,

When the mother's heart is gone
From the children she hath borne,
Claims the poor — the buried-one —
Thought or prayer — by night or morn?
No: — to pleasure's path again
Swift their careless feet return;
Little is she thought of then , —
When the heart that loved is gone!

Tears, like passing dew-drops found
Half the summer-roses o'er; —
Soon as shaken to the ground

By the village hawthorn seated
Waits a village maiden fair;
In her ear are sounds repeated
She hath heard elsewhere.
Why hath happiness such fleetness,
Wings that never rest?
When did memory's words of sweetness
Dwell in sweeter breast?

Lonely lies the field before her
In the twilight hour,
Yet the face of her adorer
Smiles from leaf and flower.

Be kind to each other! —
The night's coming on,
When friend and when brother
Perchance may be gone! —
Then 'midst our dejection
How sweet to have earned
The blest recollection
Of kindness — returned! —
When day hath departed,
And Memory keeps
Her watch, broken hearted,
Where all she loved sleeps! —

Let falsehood assail not,

ADDRESSED TO MISS C — AM, OF BRISTOL

A S Spring now approaches with all his gay train,
And scatters his beauties around the green plain,
Come then, my dear charmer, all scruples remove,
Accept of my passion, allow me to love.

Without the soft transports which love must inspire,
Without the sweet torment of fear and desire,
Our thoughts and ideas are never refined,
And nothing but winter can reign in the mind.

But love is the blossom, the spring of the soul,

Go , gentle Muse, and to my fair one say,
My ardent passion mocks the feeble lay,
That love's pure flame my panting breast inspires,
And friendship warms me with her chaster fires.
Yes, more my fond esteem, my matchless love,
Than the soft turtle's, cooing in the grove;
More than the lark delights to mount the sky,
Then, sinkinGon the greensward, soft to lie;
More than the bird of eve, at close of day,
To pour in solemn solitude her lay;
More than grave Camplin with his deep-toned note,
To mouth the sacred service got by rote;

Girl in the glass! you smile, and yet
Your eyes are full of a vague regret,
For dreams are lovely and life is sad,
And when you were a child, what dreams you had!
Now, over your soul life's shadows pass,
Girl in the glass.

Girl in the Glass, an April day
Looks not more tearful, looks not more gay
Than your rose-flushed face with the wistful mouth.
For your Soul seeks Love, as a swallow flys south,
So, into your eyes Love's sorrows pass

A GAINST the wide clear, windows of your mind
My songs continually rush and beat
Like circling swallows in the summer days,
And with bound eyes, for Love has made them blind,
They sing in darkness of your beauty, Sweet,
And chant in shadow your perpetual praise.

And yet it is not love that makes them sad,
But Sorrow that stands ever by Delight
With bruised white blossoms in her weary hands,
Love tells her all his secrets mad and glad,
And she, with languid lips and eyes like night,