love poems for her

Censured by her who stands above
The Sapphic Muse in song and love,
" For minding what such people do,"
I turn in confidence to you.
Now, Forster, did you never stop
At orange-peel or turnip-top,
To kick them from your path, and then
Complacently walk on agen?

Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throes
Of anger long burst forth;
Inconstantly the south-wind blows,
But steadily the north.

Thy star, O Venus! often changes
Its radiant seat above,
The chilling pole-star never ranges —
'Tis thus with Hate and Love.

On love, on grief, on every human thing,
Time sprinkles Lethe's water with his wing.

And if the rope
does not reach
down
far enough
into my heart,
who will fathom
the thoughts
at the bottom

A rowed-in boat,
run
aground
on a sandspit,
oarless
and alone —
like me,
weakened
by the blows
of the buffeting

Unforgettable
is the image
that from my eyes
descends in tears —
showering onto
my sleeves
with moonlight
at break of day.

It started to burn,
but the firewood
of my passion
has rotted through.
Now I wait
in the dying dusk
for the smoke

How I envy them!
For it is not smoke
rising
from
fires of passion
that surrounds
those villagers
meeting
at break of day.

An old carriage
with its legs near to collapse
stops for a rest —
worn out from traveling far
on
the way

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride,
Wi' his wide arches' cool sheäded bow,
Up above the clear brook that did slide
By the popples, befoam'd white as snow:
As the gilcups did quiver among
The white deäisies, a-spread in a sheet.
There a quick-trippen maid come along, —
Aye, a girl wi' her light-steppen veet.

An' she cried " I do praÿè, is the road
Out to Lincham on here, by the meäd? "
An' " oh! ees, " I meäde answer, an' show'd
Her the way it would turn an' would leäd: