love poem

My lady is not fair, but a clear light
Shines in her eyes from morning until night.

My lady is not learned, but she knows
The way to every heart, — straight there she goes.

Though neither fair nor learned, she is one
To love and love, and never to have done.

O H ! this illicit passion, —
'Tis ardent for a season, yet 'twill waste,
Like a wide-flaring and ill-guarded flame,
By its own vehemence; while real Love,
Like the mysterious bush which Moses saw,
Burns — yet is not consumed!

Hate is the thing that will save mankind;
We love too much in our witless way,
Pulpit, sinner and state allied,
We are far too smug in our peace and pride,
Nation of blind men leading blind
We are all too dull in the psalms we say
In the hymns we sing and the prayers we pray —
Insults flung in the face of Him
And His flaming cherubim.
Hate is the call we are waiting for,
Trumpeting high o'er the boom of war,
A hate so strong and a hate so wide
No wrong can stand in its ruthless tide.
Hate of tyranny, hate of lies,

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED TALE .

For thee, love, for thee, love,
I'll brave fate's sternest storm;
She cannot daunt or chill the hearts
Which love keeps bold and warm:
And when her clouds are blackest, nought
But thy sweet self I'll see,
Nor hear, amidst the tempest, aught
But thee, love, only thee.

For thee, love, for thee, love,
My fond heart would resign

But to have hung enamoured on those lips
To drink the passion of those beaming eyes!
Yet, yet to feel th'intoxicating power
Which stole into my heart at every word
Of that soft voice that vibrates in my ear —
Thus to have loved and loved to extasy
And be beloved again — Oh rapturous bliss!
Destroyed and lost! Yes all on earth conspired
Against the voice of Heaven; against my hopes;
And must I never more indulge the dreams
That love to call thee by a name even yet
More fond more sacred more endeared than lover?

Let Satire with her venom'd sting
Give pain to all that meet her wing,
Disturb their nights, and cloud their days:
Be mine the cup of Love and Praise .

Be ever banish'd from delight
The curse of being in the right:
Be mine endearment's partial rays,
Be my Reviewers Love and Praise .

S WEET bloom, that 's ever in its prime,
Superior to the waste of Time,
Your privilege we all approve —
But wish the secret known to Love .

With insolent conceit of taste,
I swore on Briton Ferry's hill,
" No other charms my love should waste,
Enchantment there its cup should fill. "

But soon the Nymphs of Dinevawr
Around me danc'd with Beauty's chain,
Commenc'd the Rival's jealous war,
And bound me to their smiling reign.

Then Hafod's Muse entranc'd my love,
Secluded in her arms I lay,
Explor'd with her the pathless grove,

I AM no rustic beauty's friend,
The barn and stack my taste offend.
I own 'tis classical to keep
With shepherd's crook the lambs and sheep,
Or sing of Love to shepherdesses
With nut-brown hands and flowing tresses.
But upon fancy none agree,
And this employment suits not me.
Forgive it, ye poetic themes,
I have no taste for vocal streams,
That ring in one eternal chime
Monotony's dull note of Time;
The cawing rook delights not me,
The lowing herd, or humming bee:

HERE Emma , though her discipline was hard,
Was made immortal by a deathless Bard:
For, though her Love nor age nor scene can boast,
The Nine adopt, and personate the Ghost.