Love poetry

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Come Into The Garden

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
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    in Poems (Love, Author's Poems)

    R. Alcona to J. Brenzaida

    Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee!
    Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
    Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee,
    Severed at last by Time's all-wearing wave?
    Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
    Over the mountains on Angora's shore;
    Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
    That noble heart for ever, ever more?

    Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers
    From those brown hills have melted into spring--
    Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
    After such years of change and suffering!

    Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee
    While the World's tide is bearing me along:
    Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me,
    Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong.

    No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;
    No other Star has ever shone for me:
    All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given
    All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

    But when the days of golden dreams had perished
    And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
    Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
    Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy;

    Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
    Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
    Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
    Down to that tomb already more than mine!

    And even yet, I dare not let it languish,
    Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain;
    Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
    How could I seek the empty world again?
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