love poetry

LUMINOUS passions reign
High in the soul of man; and they are twain.
Of these he hath made the poetry of earth —
Hath made his nobler tears, his magic mirth.
Fair Love is one of these,
The visiting vision of seven centuries;
And one is love of Nature — love to tears —
The modern passion of this hundred years.

O never to such height,
O never to such spiritual light-
The light of lonely visions, and the gleam
Of secret splendid sombre suns in dream —

O never to such long

Oh, raise those eyes to me again,
And smile again so joyously;
And fear not, love; it was not pain
Nor grief that drew those tears from me.
Beloved child! thou canst not tell
The thoughts that in my bosom swell
Whene'er I look on thee!

Thou knowest not that a glance of thine
Can bring back long-departed years,
And that thy blue eyes' magic shine
Can overflow my own with tears,

My love is coming! I take dinner early,
run out the middle gate, to the outside gate, and sit on the step. I shield my eyes with my hand. Is he coming or not? I look at the mountain opposite. Something black and white is standing there: it must be my love.
Stockings clutched to my breast, shoes in my hand, I begin to run,
racing, rolling, faster, still faster, oblivious of dry ground or wet — for I have words of love to say. One quick look tells me all: last year's stripped flax stalks have deceived me.
Luckily

One by one I've gathered up my feelings of love;
I've measured them, bagged them.
They're loaded now on the straight back of a fine strong horse.
Hey, lad,
give her the whip; send them off to my love.

What is love, what is it?
Is it round, is it square?
Is it long, is it short?
More than an inch, more than a yard?
It seems of no great length,
but somehow I don't know where it ends.

Love is a deceit.
She does not love me.
She says she comes to me in a dream:
it is a lie.
Lying awake every night,
in what dream shall I see her?

ON LOVE, TO A FRIEND .

I.

No, foolish youth — To virtuous fame
If now thy early hopes be vow'd,
If true ambition's nobler flame
Command thy footsteps from the crowd,
Lean not to Love's enchanting snare;
His songs, his words, his looks beware,
Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.

II.

By thought, by dangers, and by toils,
The wreath of just renown is worn;
Nor will ambition's awful spoils
The flowery pomp of ease adorn:

IF YOU were with me — as you're not, of course,
I'd taste the elegant tortures of Despair
With a slow, languid, long-refining tongue;
Puzzle for days on one particular stare,
Or if you knew a word's peculiar force,
Or what you looked like when you were quite young.

You'd lift me heaven-high — till a word grated.
Dash me hell-deep — oh that luxurious Pit,
Fatly and well encushioned with self-pity,
Where Love's an epicure not quickly sated!
What mournful musics wander over it,
Faint-blown from some long-lost celestial city!

TO A FRIEND UNSUCCESSFUL IN LOVE .

I.

Indeed , my Phaedria, if to find
That wealth can female wishes gain,
Had e'er disturb'd your thoughtful mind,
Or caused one serious moment's pain,
I should have said that all the rules,
You learned of moralists and schools,
Were very useless, very vain.

II.

Yet I perhaps mistake the case —
Say, though with this heroic air,
Like one that holds a nobler chase,
You try the tender loss to bear;

Ah! not now, when desire burns, and the wind calls, and the suns of spring
Light-foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring:
Ah! not now should you come, now when the road beckons, and good friends call,
Where are songs to be sung, fights to be fought, yea! and the best of all,
Love, on myriad lips fairer than yours, kisses you could not give! . . .
Dearest, why should I mourn, whimper, and whine, I that have yet to live?
Sorrow will I forget, tears for the best, love on the lips of you,