love poem

Beaucoup d'amour

In spite of Wisdom's voice,
I would have heaps of gold;
And quickly at my mistress' feet
My treasures should be told.
Oh! never, Adele, would I cease
To satisfy thy least caprice:
Nay, nay, mine is not avarice —
But much, much love.

To immortalize Adele,
Were I with song inspired,
My verse, that ever painted her,
Should ever be admired
Ah, would that our united name

Singing for Jesus, our Saviour and King,
Singing for Jesus, the Lord whom we love;
All adoration we joyously bring,
Longing to praise as we'll praise him above.
Singing for Jesus,
Oh, singing for joy . . . . .
Thus will we praise . . . . him, and tell out his love . . . . .
Till he shall call us ... to brighter employ . . . .
Singing for Jesus forever, above.
Singing for Jesus, and trying to win
Many to love him, and join in the song;
Calling the weary and wandering in,
Rolling the chorus of gladness along

Love took me up, a naked, helpless child,
Love laid me sleeping on the tender breast,
Love gazed on me with saintly eyes and mild,
Love watched me as I lay in happy rest,
Love was my childhood's stay, my chiefest good,
My daily friend, my solace, and my food.

But when to Love's own stature I was come,
Treading the paths where fabled Loves abound,
Hard by the Cytherean's magic home,
Loveless I paced alone the enchanted ground
Some phantoms pale I marked, which fled away,
And lo, my youth was gone; my hair turned gray.

LOVE Letters RETURNED IN S PRING

H OW many petals fall!
Yet in my heart
They once were growing all!

I WAS in love with life and then I died —
Because I lost the thing that I loved best.
In my embittered soul with arid zest
Sad disillusion, with fierce hate allied,
Battled with murdered love and wounded pride;
And harsh resentment, harbored in my breast,
Festered the wound in my dead soul, till Rest
Even the Rest of Death could not abide.
My holier self in grief unholy lost
Struggled to win my soul from sullen shame
And lift my eyes through sacrificial tears,
But though I proudly paid the crucial cost

The deed is speech. Great Love remembereth.
Only the voice that in the life is found.
The spoken word is but a broken breath
That moans in breaking into speech and sound;
The thought and feeling, — these are life and death,
And with the deed, complete life's fullest round.

Love is a boundless bliss:
All they who share it
With lover's look and lover's kiss,
Surely shall declare it.

Love is a precious pain:
No skill can heal it,
When they who sigh but sigh in vain
In their hearts conceal it.

Love with the crown of life
His king and queen covers,
When gallant man and gentle wife
Still are steadfast lovers.

Ah! and when envious Death
One life shall smother,
Love with his willow-wreath
Crowns that constant other.

(Said Kildree Tim: " There's niver words
Betwixt me wife an' me!
Aroo, we live loike matin' birds,
Widout a peck! " says he,
Aye, niver a row or ruction, lad,
Me mild-shpoke mate an' I've wanst had! " )

Since first I've loved me Eily
We've wrangled, walked away,
An' fought an' kissed an' fallen out
An' stormed be night an' day!

Faith, since I've first loved Eily,
On throubled seas I've swung!
That woman's two-thirds made av fire,
An' wan-third made av tongue!

Lord of the wind and fire,
In whose dread name
All things are wrought,
Clothe me with large desire
And ardent flame
Of breathing thought.
That all the world may know
Thy love and might,
And be in awe,
Let me in beauty show,
And pageant light,
Thy perfect Law.

We , who have loved, and from our Faith have faltered,
And made of love a desecrated thing,
How can we bear to face the God we've altered?
Like some great eagle on a broken wing,
No more our love can rise to heights transcendent
Where glows the light that ne'er on sea or shore
Has shone except for those whose love resplendent
Has lent them wings of fire on which to soar.
From that dim region which our souls inherit
We bore the promise of a pristine flame;
Alas! that we, who knew the holy Spirit,