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First Love
I ne'er was struck before that hourWith love so sudden and so sweet.Her face it bloomed like a sweet flowerAnd stole my heart away complete.My face turned pale as deadly pale,My legs refused to walk away,And when she looked "what could I ail?"My life and all seemed turned to clay.And then my blood rushed to my faceAnd took my sight away.The trees and bushes round the placeSeemed midnight at noonday.I could not see a single thing,Words from my eyes did start;They spoke as chords do from the stringAnd blood burnt round my heart.Are flowers the winter's choice?Is love's bed always snow?She seemed to hear my silent voiceAnd love's appeal to know.I never saw so sweet a faceAs that I stood before:My hea...
John Clare
To Mr. and Mrs. A. M. T.
Just when the gentle hand of springCame fringing the trees with bud and leaf,And when the blades the warm suns bringWere given glad promise of golden sheaf;Just when the birds began to singJoy hymns after their winter's grief,I wandered weary to a place;Tired of toil, I sought for rest,Where Nature wore her mildest grace --I went where I was more than guest.Strange, tall trees rose as if they fainWould wear as crowns the clouds of skies;The sad winds swept with low refrainThrough branches breathing softest sighs;And o'er the field and down the laneSweet flowers, the dreams of Paradise,Bloomed up into this world of pain,Where all that's fairest soonest dies;And 'neath the trees a little streamWent winding slowly round and round...
Abram Joseph Ryan
In Memory Of Charles Wentworth Upham, Jr.
He was all sunshine; in his faceThe very soul of sweetness shone;Fairest and gentlest of his race;None like him we can call our own.Something there was of one that diedIn her fresh spring-time long ago,Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed,Whose smile it was a bliss to know.Something of her whose love impartsSuch radiance to her day's decline,We feel its twilight in our heartsBright as the earliest morning-shine.Yet richer strains our eye could traceThat made our plainer mould more fair,That curved the lip with happier grace,That waved the soft and silken hair.Dust unto dust! the lips are stillThat only spoke to cheer and bless;The folded hands lie white and chillUnclasped from sorrow's last caress.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Speed Well.
What time I left my native land,And bade farewell to my true love,She laid a flower in my handAs azure as the sky above."Speed thee well! Speed well!"She softly whispered, "Speed well!This flower blueBe token trueOf my true heart's true love for you!"Its tender hue is bright and pure,As heav'n through summer clouds doth show,A pledge though clouds thy way obscure,It shall not be for ever so."Speed thee well! Speed well!"She softly whisper'd, "Speed well!This flower blueBe token trueOf my true heart's true love for you!"And as I toil through help and harm,And whilst on alien shores I dwell,I wear this flower as a charm,My heart repeats that tender spell:"Speed thee well! Speed well!"It softly...
Juliana Horatia Ewing
Song. To [Harriet].
Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain,And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze,And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain,'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection,Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve,Though the time it is past! - yet the dear recollection,For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing,Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear,When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying,And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear. -And thou dearest friend in his bosom for everMust reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year,He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Gone
Another hand is beckoning us,Another call is given;And glows once more with Angel-stepsThe path which reaches Heaven.Our young and gentle friend, whose smileMade brighter summer hours,Amid the frosts of autumn timeHas left us with the flowers.No paling of the cheek of bloomForewarned us of decay;No shadow from the Silent LandFell round our sister's way.The light of her young life went down,As sinks behind the hillThe glory of a setting star,Clear, suddenly, and still.As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemedEternal as the sky;And like the brook's low song, her voice,A sound which could not die.And half we deemed she needed notThe changing of her sphere,To give to Heaven a Shining O...
John Greenleaf Whittier
Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter XII. Victory.
Letter XII. Victory.I. Now have I reach'd the goal of my desire, For thou hast sworn - as sweetly as a bell Makes out its chime - the oath I love to tell, The fealty-oath of which I never tire. The lordly forest seems a giant's lyre, And sings, and rings, the thoughts that o'er it swell.II. The air is fill'd with voices. I have found Comfort at last, enthralment, and a joy Past all belief; a peace without alloy. There is a splendour all about the ground As if from Eden, when the w...
Eric Mackay
The Need to Love
The need to love that all the stars obeyEntered my heart and banished all beside.Bare were the gardens where I used to stray;Faded the flowers that one time satisfied.Before the beauty of the west on fire,The moonlit hills from cloister-casements viewed,Cloud-like arose the image of desire,And cast out peace and maddened solitude.I sought the City and the hopes it held:With smoke and brooding vapors intercurled,As the thick roofs and walls close-paralleledShut out the fair horizons of the world -A truant from the fields and rustic joy,In my changed thought that image even soShut out the gods I worshipped as a boyAnd all the pure delights I used to know.Often the veil has trembled at some tideOf lovely reminiscence ...
Alan Seeger
Time Cures All
It was my shame, and now it is my boast,That I have loved you rather more than most.
Hilaire Belloc
Love, The Song Of Songs
Over the roar of cities,Over the hush of the hills,Mounts ever a song that never stops,A voice that never stills.Epic-loud as the sea is,Lyric-low as the dew,It sings and sings a soul into thingsAnd builds the world anew.Dauntless, deathless, stern but kind,Bold and free and strong,It sweeps with mastery man's mind,And rolls the world along.From soul to soul it wings its words,And, lo, the darkness flies;And all who heed that song of songsView Earth with other eyes.New eyes, new thoughts, that shall go onSeeing as Beauty sings,Until the light of the farthest dawnShall fold its rainbow wings.
Madison Julius Cawein
Mary Neele
My love is tall and handsome; All hearts she might command; She's matchless for her beauty, The queen of all the land. She has my heart in keeping, For which there's no repeal, For the fairest of all woman kind Is my love, Mary Neele. I felt my soul enchanted To view this turtle dove, That lately seems descended From heavenly bowers of love; And might I have the fortune My wishes could reveal, I'd turn my back on splendour And fly to Mary Neele. She is the flower of nations, The diamond of my eye; All others are but gloworms That in her splendour die. As shining stars all vanish When suns their light reveal, So beauties shrink t...
To My Wife--A Valentine
O once I had a true love,As blest as I could be:Patty was my turtle dove,And Patty she loved me.We walked the fields together,By roses and woodbine,In Summer's sunshine weather,And Patty she was mine.We stopped to gather primroses,And violets white and blue,In pastures and green closesAll glistening with the dew.We sat upon green mole-hills,Among the daisy flowers,To hear the small birds' merry trills,And share the sunny hours.The blackbird on her grassy nestWe would not scare away,Who nuzzling sat with brooding breastOn her eggs for half the day.The chaffinch chirruped on the thorn,And a pretty nest had she;The magpie chattered all the mornFrom her perch upon the tree.And I woul...
The Diary Of An Old Soul. - April.
1. LORD, I do choose the higher than my will. I would be handled by thy nursing arms After thy will, not my infant alarms. Hurt me thou wilt--but then more loving still, If more can be and less, in love's perfect zone! My fancy shrinks from least of all thy harms, But do thy will with me--I am thine own. 2. Some things wilt thou not one day turn to dreams? Some dreams wilt thou not one day turn to fact? The thing that painful, more than should be, seems, Shall not thy sliding years with them retract-- Shall fair realities not counteract? The thing that was well dreamed of bliss and joy-- Wilt thou not breathe thy life int...
George MacDonald
Hope
Thine eyes are dim:A mist hath gathered there;Around their rimFloat many clouds of care,And there is sorrow every -- everywhere.But there is God,Every -- everywhere;Beneath His rodKneel thou adown in prayer.For grief is God's own kissUpon a soul.Look up! the sun of blissWill shine where storm-clouds roll.Yes, weeper, weep!'Twill not be evermore;I know the darkest deepHath e'en the brightest shore.So tired! so tired!A cry of half despair;Look! at your side --And see Who standeth there!Your Father! Hush!A heart beats in His breast;Now rise and rushInto His arms -- and rest.
Primrose And Violet
Primrose and Violet -May they help thee to forgetAll that love should not remember,Sweet as meadows after rainWhen the sun has come again,As woods awakened from December.How they wash the soul from stain!How they set the spirit free!Take them, dear, and pray for me.
Richard Le Gallienne
Sonnet XXVI.
Già fiammeggiava l' amorosa stella.LAURA, WHO IS ILL, APPEARS TO HIM IN A DREAM, AND ASSURES HIM THAT SHE STILL LIVES. Throughout the orient now began to flameThe star of love; while o'er the northern skyThat, which has oft raised Juno's jealousy,Pour'd forth its beauteous scintillating beam:Beside her kindled hearth the housewife dame,Half-dress'd, and slipshod, 'gan her distaff ply:And now the wonted hour of woe drew nigh,That wakes to tears the lover from his dream:When my sweet hope unto my mind appear'd,Not in the custom'd way unto my sight;For grief had bathed my lids, and sleep had weigh'd;Ah me, how changed that form by love endear'd!"Why lose thy fortitude?" methought she said,"These eyes not yet from thee ...
Francesco Petrarca
Passion.
The wine-loud laughter of indulged DesireUpon his lips, and, in his eyes, the fireOf uncontrol, he takes in reckless hands, -And interrupts with discords, - the sad lyreOf LOVE'S deep soul, and never understands.
Dreams.
I.The sweetest dreams, it seems to me, that we can ever know,Are those the fancy brings to us of days of long-ago,When rainbow-tinted pictures all are like a mirage flungUpon the canvas memory weaves--of days when we were young.II.The step may falter, eye be dim--the brow may wrinkles wear,And underneath the crumbling mould our friends be sleeping there--But oh, these visions come to us as to the rose the dew,And while with raptured gaze we look the heart seems ever new.III.Oh, when perhaps at last we're left a laggard on life's stage,This is the mellowed draught we quaff our longings to assuage--As sweet as that from Paradise the smiling Houris handThe Prophet's faithful followers when at its gates they stand!
George W. Doneghy