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To Helen
Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicean barks of yoreThat gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary, way-worn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,And the grandeur that was Rome.Lo, in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand,Ah! Psyche, from the regions whichAre Holy Land!
Edgar Allan Poe
For You
For you, I could forget the gayDelirium of merriment,And let my laughter die awayIn endless silence of content. I could forget, for your dear sake, The utter emptiness and ache Of every loss I ever knew. - What could I not forget for you?I could forget the just desertsOf mine own sins, and so eraseThe tear that burns, the smile that hurts,And all that mars or masks my face. For your fair sake I could forget The bonds of life that chafe and fret, Nor care if death were false or true. - What could I not forget for you?What could I not forget? Ah me!One thing, I know, would still abideForever in my memory,Though all of love were lost beside - I yet would feel how first the wine ...
James Whitcomb Riley
The Rose: To Ellen.
The sportive sylphs that course the air,Unseen on wings that twilight weaves,Around the opening rose repair,And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves.With sparkling cups of bubbles made,They catch the ruddy beams of day,And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade,Their blushing favorite to array.They gather gems with sunbeams bright,From floating clouds and falling showersThey rob Aurora's locks of lightTo grace their own fair queen of flowers.Thus, thus adorned, the speaking Rose,Becomes a token fit to tell,Of things that words can ne'er disclose,And nought but this reveal so well.Then take my flower, and let its leavesBeside thy heart be cherished near,While that confiding heart receivesThe thought it whis...
Samuel Griswold Goodrich
Should E'er The Loveless Day.
Should e'er the loveless day remainObscured by storms of hail and rain,Thy charms thou showest never;I tap at window, tap at door:Come, lov'd one, come! appear once more!Thou art as fair as ever!
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
To H. W. Longfellow - Before His Departure For Europe, May 27, 1868
Our Poet, who has taught the Western breezeTo waft his songs before him o'er the seas,Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reachBorne on the spreading tide of English speechTwin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the farthest beach.Where shall the singing bird a stranger beThat finds a nest for him in every tree?How shall he travel who can never goWhere his own voice the echoes do not know,Where his own garden flowers no longer learn to grow?Ah! gentlest soul! how gracious, how benignBreathes through our troubled life that voice of thine,Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres,That wins and warms, that kindles, softens, cheers,That calms the wildest woe and stays the bitterest tears!Forgive the simple words that sound li...
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Mischievous Joy.
AS a butterfly renew'd,When in life I breath'd my last,To the spots my flight I wing,Scenes of heav'nly rapture past,Over meadows, to the spring,Round the hill, and through the wood.Soon a tender pair I spy,And I look down from my seatOn the beauteous maiden's headWhen embodied there I meetAll I lost as soon as dead,Happy as before am I.Him she clasps with silent smile,And his mouth the hour improves,Sent by kindly Deities;First from breast to mouth it roves,Then from mouth to hands it flies,And I round him sport the while.And she sees me hov'ring near;Trembling at her lovers rapture,Up she springs I fly away,
Yes, Holy Be Thy Resting Place
Yes, holy be thy resting placeWherever thou may'st lie;The sweetest winds breathe on thy face,The softest of the sky.And will not guardian Angles sendKind dreams and thoughts of love,Though I no more may watchful bendThy longed repose above?And will not heaven itself bestowA beam of glory thereThat summer's grass more green may grow,And summer's flowers more fair?Farewell, farewell, 'tis hard to partYet, loved one, it must be:I would not rend another heartNot even by blessing thee.Go! We must break affection's chain,Forget the hopes of years:Nay, grieve not - willest thou remainTo waken wilder tearsThis herald breeze with thee and me,Roved in the dawning day:And thou shouldest be...
Emily Bronte
To-Night
The moon is a curving flower of gold,The sky is still and blue;The moon was made for the sky to hold,And I for you.The moon is a flower without a stem,The sky is luminous;Eternity was made for them,To-night for us.
Sara Teasdale
Sonnet CCXXII.
In tale Stella duo begli occhi vidi.THE BEAUTY OF LAURA IS PEERLESS. In one fair star I saw two brilliant eyes,With sweetness, modesty, so glistening o'er,That soon those graceful nests of Love beforeMy worn heart learnt all others to despise:Equall'd not her whoever won the prizeIn ages gone on any foreign shore;Not she to Greece whose wondrous beauty boreUnnumber'd ills, to Troy death's anguish'd cries:Not the fair Roman, who, with ruthless bladePiercing her chaste and outraged bosom, fledDishonour worse than death, like charms display'd;Such excellence should brightest glory shedOn Nature, as on me supreme delight,But, ah! too lately come, too soon it takes its flight.MACGREGOR.
Francesco Petrarca
Amour 11
Thine eyes taught mee the Alphabet of loue,To con my Cros-rowe ere I learn'd to spell;For I was apt, a scholler like to proue,Gaue mee sweet lookes when as I learned well.Vowes were my vowels, when I then begunAt my first Lesson in thy sacred name:My consonants the next when I had done,Words consonant, and sounding to thy fame.My liquids then were liquid christall teares,My cares my mutes, so mute to craue reliefe;My dolefull Dypthongs were my liues dispaires,Redoubling sighes the accents of my griefe: My loues Schoole-mistris now hath taught me so, That I can read a story of my woe.
Michael Drayton
Little-Oh Dear
See, what a wonderful garden is here,Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear!Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown -Search ye the country and hunt ye the townAnd never ye'll meet with a garden so queerAs this one I've made for my Little-Oh-Dear!Marigolds white and buttercups blue,Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew,The cactus that trails over trellis and wall,Roses and pansies and violets - allMake proper obeisance and reverent cheerWhen into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear.And up at the top of that lavender-treeA silver-bird singeth as only can she;For, ever and only, she singeth the song"I love you - I love you!" the happy day long; -Then the echo - the echo that smiteth me here!"I love you, I love you," my Little-Oh-D...
Eugene Field
Jesus, Do I Love Thee?
(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1864.)Jesus, do I love Thee?Thou art far above me,Seated out of sightHid in Heavenly LightOf most highest height.Martyred hosts implore Thee,Seraphs fall before Thee,Angels and Archangels,Cherub throngs adore Thee;Blessed She that bore Thee!All the Saints approve Thee,All the Virgins love Thee.I show as a blotBlood hath cleansed not,As a barren spotIn Thy fruitful lot.I, fig-tree fruit-unbearing;Thou, righteous Judge unsparing:What canst Thou do more to meThat shall not more undo me?Thy Justice hath a sound -Why cumbereth it the ground?Thy Love with stirrings strongerPleads - Give it one year longer.Thou giv'st me time: but whoSave...
Christina Georgina Rossetti
Why, My Heart, Do We Love Her So?
Why, my heart, do we love her so?(Geraldine, Geraldine!)Why does the great sea ebb and flow? -Why does the round world spin?Geraldine, Geraldine,Bid me my life renew:What is it worth unless I win,Love - love and you?Why, my heart, when we speak her name(Geraldine, Geraldine!)Throbs the word like a flinging flame? -Why does the Spring begin?Geraldine, Geraldine,Bid me indeed to be:Open your heart, and take us in,Love - love and me.
William Ernest Henley
The Water Lily
This lovely lily, so pure and white,Seems covered o'er with celestial light;As if it grew on the "Tree of Life,"And not down here, in this world of strife;Too pure for earth it now seems to be;My queenly wife, it was meant for thee.Its wax-like petals with graceful bend,Drink in the sunbeams as they descend;And lade with fragrance the heated airAs it floats around us everywhere;And the world grows better by its advent,This lovely lily, so kindly sent.It rested once on its crystal bed;Neither wind, nor wave, occasioned dread;Admired by all as they passed it by,Though the contrast oft produced a sigh;In purer soil than affords this earthThis lovely lily must have had its birth.Dive down in search, where the root is f...
Joseph Horatio Chant
Dedication
Love owes tribute unto Death,Being but a flower of breath,Ev'n as thy fair body isMoment's figure of the blissDwelling in the mind of GodWhen He called thee from the sod,Like a crocus up to start,Gray-eyed with a golden heart,Out of earth, and point our sightTo thy eternal home of light.Here on earth is all we know:To let our love as steadfast blow,Open-hearted to the sun,Folded down when our day's done,As thy flower that bids it beFlower of thy charity.'Tis not ours to boast or prayBreath from us shall outlive clay;'Tis not thine, thou Pitiful,Set me task beyond my rule.Yet as young men carve on treesLovely names, and find in theseSolace in the after time,So to have hid thee in my rhyme
Maurice Henry Hewlett
At Belvoir
My thoughts go back to last July,Sweet happy thoughts and tender;The bridal of the earth and sky,A day of noble splendour;A day to make the saddest heartIn joy a true believer;When two good friends we roamed apartThe shady walks of Belvoir.A maiden like a budding rose,Unconscious of the goldenAnd fragrant bliss of love that glowsDeep in her heart infolden;A Poet old in years and thought,Yet not too old for pleasance,Made young again and fancy-fraughtBy such a sweet friend's presence.The other two beyond our kenMost shamefully deserted,And far from all the ways of menTheir stealthy steps averted:Of course our Jack would go astray,Erotic and erratic;But Mary! well, I own the dayWas really to...
James Thomson
Mariline.
At the wheel plied Mariline,Beauteous and self-serene,Never dreaming of that mienFit for lady or for queen.Never sang she, but her words,Music-laden, swept the chordsOf the heart, that eagerlyStored the subtle melody,Like the honey in the bee;Never spake, but showed that sheHeld the golden master-keyThat unlocked all sympathyPent in souls where Feeling glows,Like the perfume in the rose,Like her own innate repose,Like the whiteness in the snows.Richly thoughted Mariline!Nature's heiress! - nature's queen!II.By her side, with liberal look,Paused a student o'er a book,Wielder of a shepherd's crook,Reveller by grove and brook:Hunter-up of musty tomes,
Charles Sangster
The Unattainable
Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.Man holds her in his heart as night doth holdThe moonlight memories of day's dead gold;Or as a winter-withered asphodelIn its dead loveliness holds scents of old.And looking on her, lo, he thinks 'tis well.Who would not follow her whose glory sits,Imperishably lovely on the air?Who, from the arms of Earth's desire, flitsWith eyes defiant and rebellions hair? -Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?When disappointment at her cup's bright brimPoisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.How long, how long since Life hath touched her eyes,Making ...
Madison Julius Cawein