love poem

A NGUS' S ONG

Are the gods forgotten in Morven of the hinds.
The beauty that slew men the golden eyes that shone
The gods that will be walking on the rocks of the winds
That little men would die for the love of looking on?

Are the gods forgotten in Morven of the stags,
The old gods, the fair gods that were too high for love,
The white feet pressing on the grasses of the crags,

When our glowing dreams were dead,
Ruined our heroic piles,
Something in your dark eyes said:
" Think no more of love or smiles. "

Something in me still would say,
" Though our dreamland palace goes,
I have seen how in decay
Still the wild rose clings and blows. "

But your dark eyes willed it thus:
" Build our lofty dream again:
Let our palace rise o'er us:
Love can never be till then. "

Many poems have I written unto thee, good and bad,
And many more have I not uttered,
For the words came not. Ay, those feeble little words
That leap so easily from the lips of the speaker
And fall dead upon the ground, they came not:
For they were fearful of the burden of my thought,
And my passion shrivelled them up as leaves in a hot fire.
My thoughts were like lightning playing upon the hills,
They hovered about thy beauty as lightning upon the sea;
Pale, cold is thy beauty, aloof from the warm arms of the earth,

When first a gentle kiss
Upon Nise I pressed,
Paradise-grain and cassia
Her lovely breath confessed.
And on her smiling lips
Such luscious sweets I found
As never knew the hills
Or bees of Hybla's ground.
To purify its balm
With love's essential dews,
A thousand and a thousand times
Each day her lips I choose;
Until the sum and total
Of all our score amount
To kisses more than Venus
Did from Adonis count.

Alexis calls me cruel:
The rifted crags that hold
The gathered ice of winter,
He says, are not more cold.

When even the very blossoms
Around the fountain's brim,
And forest-walks, can witness
The love I bear to him.

I would that I could utter
My feelings without shame,
And tell him how I love him,
Nor wrong my virgin fame.

Alas! to seize the moment
When heart inclines to heart,
And press a suit with passion,
Is not a woman's part.

If man come not to gather

When love is over, are we most alone.
When hearths are black, there is the cold of stone.
I rise from my bed and walk the dismal night,
Weeping, I seek alone my ultimate right.

The warmth and cheer of Love is but a lure,
By which the blood is cheated to endure.
To each man is a path, by other feet untrod,
Which leads him, lonely, to the hill of God.

On God's cold hill, there is a holy height,
Where splendid fires descend to man at night:
On the cold traveller falls the livening breath,

Epigram

Laying aside his Bow and Torch, a Whip
Severe Love took, and at his side a Scrip;
Then on the patient Oxen doth impose
A Yoak, and in the fertile Furrow sows:
And looking up, good weather Jove , or Thou
(Saith he) Europa's Bull shalt draw my plow.

Horses plainly are descry'd
By the Mark upon their side:
Parthians are distinguished
By the Miters on their Head:
But from all Men else a Lover
I can easily discover,
For upon his easie Breast
Love his Brand-Mark hath imprest.

When I come to the end of the land,
I find the sea,
With edges of cliff and breadths of sand
To pleasure me.

When I raise my town-tired eyes
There is blue and white,
Or kings and castles of stormy skies,
Or joy of night.

When I weary of all I see
And tire even of space,
I hold your love in memory,
And your dear face.

Why is there healing in her love?
Her mind is clear as streams that flow
Down rock-steps to a vale below,
Bearing on spray the Sun's bright bow,
And singing as they move.