To Marion
Marion! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast;
He in dimpling smiles appears,
Or mourns in weedy timid tears'
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding frown.
Then resume thy former fire
Some will love, and all admire;
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool indifference thrills us.
Wou'dst thou wandering hearts beguile,
Smile at least, or seem to smile.
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint.
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips – but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curt'sies, frowns,– in short she
Dreads lest the subject should transport me;
And flying off in search of reason,
Brings prudence back in proper season.
All I shall therefore say (whate'er
I think, is neither here nor there)
Is, that such lips of looks endearing,
Were form'd for better things than sneering:
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of flattery free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother's,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing:
At once I'll tell thee our opinion
Concerning woman's soft dominion:
Howe'er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue or lips carnation,
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us,
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture
To say they form a pretty picture;
But wouldst thou see the secret chain
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION.
Related quotes
To My Son
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother’s in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father’s heart, my Boy!
And thou canst lisp a father’s name—
Ah, William, were thine own the same,—
No self-reproach—but, let me cease—
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother’s shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger’s breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,—
A Father’s heart is thine, my Boy!
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature’s claims disown?
Ah, no—though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy—
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
Oh,’twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o’er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen’s form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne’er desert its pledge, my Boy!
poem by Byron (1807)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Grief Of Love
Love, I am sick for thee, sick with an absolute grief,
Sick with the thought of thy eyes and lips and bosom.
All the beauty I saw, I see to my hurt revealed.
All that I felt I feel to--day for my pain and sorrow.
Love, I would fain forget thee, hide thee in deeper night,
Shut thee where no thought is, in the grave with tears.
Love, I would turn my face to the wall and, if needs be, die;
Death less cruel were than thy eyes which have blinded me.
Since thou art gone from me, glory is gone from my life;
Dumb are the woods and streams, and dumb the voice of my soul;
Dead are the flowers we loved, blackened and sere with blight;
Earth is frost--bound under my foot where our footsteps trod.
Give me back for my sorrow the days of senseless peace,
Days when I thought not of thee, or thought in wisdom;
Let me see thee once more as thou to my folly wert,
A woman senseless as sounding brass or as tinkling cymbal.
Why didst thou show me thy heart, which I thought not of?
Why didst thou bare me thy soul, who to me wert soulless?
Why didst thou kiss my mouth, when my mouth did mock?
Why didst thou speak to my lips of love, ere my lips had spoken?
Love, thou hast made me thine, thine, and in my despite,
Laying thy hand on my heart in the soft Spring weather;
Love, thou hast bought my soul at a price, the price of thine,
Never again to mock at love, ah, never, never!
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Emigrant Mother
ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.
Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
My song the workings of her heart expressed.
I
'Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine,
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest field:
Thy little sister is at play;--
What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me!
II
'Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a babe at home:
A long, long way of land and sea!
Come to me--I'm no enemy:
I am the same who at thy side
Sate yesterday, and made a nest
For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried,
Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
Good, good art thou:--alas! to me
Far more than I can be to thee.
III
'Here, little Darling, dost thou lie;
An infant thou, a mother I!
Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
Mine art thou--spite of these my tears.
Alas! before I left the spot,
My baby and its dwelling-place;
The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
Be shed upon an infant's face,
It was unlucky'--no, no, no;
No truth is in them who say so!
IV
'My own dear Little-one will sigh,
Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
And you may see his hour is come.'
Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
And countenance like a summer's day,
They would have hopes of him;--and then
I should behold his face again!
V
''Tis gone--like dreams that we forget;
There was a smile or two--yet--yet
I can remember them, I see
The smiles, worth all the world to me.
Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own;
I cannot keep thee in my arms;
For they confound me;--where--where is
That last, that sweetest smile of his?
VI
'Oh! how I love thee!--we will stay
Together here this one half day.
My sister's child, who bears my name,
From France to sheltering England came;
She with her mother crossed the sea;
The babe and mother near me dwell:
Yet does my yearning heart to thee
Turn rather, though I love her well:
Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
Never was any child more dear!
VII
'--I cannot help it; ill intent
I've none, my pretty Innocent!
I weep--I know they do thee wrong,
These tears---and my poor idle tongue.
Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
How cold it is! but thou art good;
Thine eyes are on me--they would speak,
I think, to help me if they could.
Blessings upon that soft, warm face,
My heart again is in its place!
VIII
'While thou art mine, my little Love,
This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
Contentment, hope, and mother's glee,
I seem to find them all in thee:
Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
I'll call thee by my darling's name;
Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
Thy features seem to me the same;
His little sister thou shalt be;
And, when once more my home I see,
I'll tell him many tales of Thee.'
poem by William Wordsworth
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To Mary
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak—thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
poem by Charles Wolfe
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Our Hands Have Met
Our hands have met, our lips have met
Our souls - who knows when the wind blows
How light souls drift mid longings set,
If thou forget'st, can I forget
The time that was not long ago?
Thou wert not silent then, but told
Sweet secrets dear - I drew so near
Thy shamefaced cheeks grown overbold,
That scarce thine eyes might I behold!
Ah was it then so long ago!
Trembled my lips and thou wouldst turn
But hadst no heart to draw apart,
Beneath my lips thy cheek did burn -
Yet no rebuke that I might learn;
Yea kind looks still, not long ago.
Wilt thou be glad upon the day
When unto me this love shall be
An idle fancy passed away,
And we shall meet and smile and say
'O wasted sighs of long ago!'
Wilt thou rejoice that thou hast set
Cold words, dull shows 'twixt hearts drawn close,
That cold at heart I live on yet,
Forgetting still that I forget
The priceless days of long ago?
poem by William Morris
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The Revellers
Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
They are here-the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.
-But I met a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh,
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that woe should breathe
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!
-Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!
Ring, joyous chords!-but who art thou
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?
-Thou hast lov'd, fair girl! thou hast lov'd too well!
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell;
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on!-yet come thou not here the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!
There is not a tone in our songs for thee-
-Home with thy sorrows flee!
Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!
-But what dost thou with the Revel's train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest?
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth-
-Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords!-ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
-But thou , though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee!-it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee!-thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might!
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun,
For it asks what the secret soul hath done!
And thou-there's a dark weight on thine-away!
-Back to thy home and pray!
Ring, joyous chords!-ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
And bring fresh wreaths!-we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On through the maze of the fleet dance, on!
-But where are the young and the lovely?-gone!
Where are the brows with the red rose crown'd,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?
And the waving locks and the flying feet,
That still should be where the mirthful meet!
-They are gone-they are fled-they are parted all-
-Alas! the forsaken hall!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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To M
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
'Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
Sonnet XXXII: Equal Troth
Not by one measure mayst thou mete our love;
For how should I be loved as I love thee?—
I, graceless, joyless, lacking absolutely
All gifts that with thy queenship best behove;—
Thou, throned in every heart's elect alcove,
And crowned with garlands culled from every tree,
Which for no head but thine, by Love's decree,
All beauties and all mysteries interwove.
But here thine eyes and lips yield soft rebuke:—
“Then only” (say'st thou) “could I love thee less,
When thou couldst doubt my love's equality.”
Peace, sweet! If not to sum but worth we look,—
Thy heart's transcendence, not my heart's excess,—
Then more a thousandfold thou lov'st than I.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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They Shall Not Know
When thou art happy, thou dear heart of pleasure,
Because men love thee and the feasts are spread,
And Fortune in thy lap has poured her treasure,
And Spring is there and roses crown thy head,
Then think of one who loved thee for his woe,
And, if thou sigh
With others by,
They shall not know.
When thou art silent in thy day of trouble,
Because fools vex and thou hast rivals found
And love has played thee falser than a bubble
And memory stings and grief is as a wound,
Then think of one whose hand first soothed thy brow,
And, if a smile
Thy tears beguile,
These shall not know.
When all is ended, thou pale ghost of sorrow,
And time's last flower is gathered from the grove,
And yesterday to thee is as to--morrow
And there is none to speak to thee of love,
Then sing these songs one made thee long ago,
And men shall swear
Thou still art fair--
Yet shall not know.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Second Love
Could I reveal the secret joy
Thy presence always with it brings,
The memories so strangely waked
Of long forgotten things,
The love, the hope, the fear, the grief,
Which with that voice come back to me, --
Thou wouldst forgive the impassioned gaze
So often turned on thee.
It was, indeed, that early love,
But foretaste of this second one, --
The soft light of the morning star
Before the morning sun.
The same dark beauty in her eyes,
The same blonde hair and placid brow,
The same deep-meaning, quiet smile
Thou bendest on me now,
She might have been, she WAS no more
Than what a prescient hope could make, --
A dear presentiment of thee
I loved but for thy sake.
poem by Henry Timrod
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Song: Oh the Tear
Oh the tear is in my eye, and my heart it is breaking,
Thou hast fled from me, Connor, and left me forsaken;
Bright and warm was our morning, but soon has it faded,
For I gave thee a true heart, and thou hast betrayed it.
Thy footsteps I followed in darkness and danger,
From the home of my love to the land of the stranger;
Thou wert mine through the tempest, the blight, and the burning;
Could I think thou wouldst change when the morn was returning.
Yet peace to thy heart, though from mine it must sever,
May she love thee as I loved, alone and for ever;
I may weep for thy loss, but my faith is unshaken,
And the heart thou hast widowed will bless thee in breaking.
poem by Joseph Rodman Drake
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To Henry, Written to a Russian Air
How I hail this morn's appearing!
It will thee, my love, restore:
Safety danger past endearing,
Sure we meet to part no more!
Fame is thine, lo! crowds aver it,
And her smile is dear to thee;
But I charge thee, don't prefer it
E'er again to home and me.
Thou, thy country's call obeying,
Hast her battles nobly fought;
And, thy ready zeal repaying,
See, she gives the laurels sought.
But have I no claims, my rover?
Claims as fondly dear to thee?
Yes, O yes! and, wandering over,
Thou wilt rest with love and me.
Ha! methinks, thy glances reading,
From thine eyes my fate I know;
Duty still love's claim impeding,
Thou again must seek the foe.
Of my fears too dread revival!
Yet, with tearful joy I see,
Duty is the only rival
Potent over love and me.
poem by Amelia Opie
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Sonnet 142: Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,
O, but with mine, compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving,
Or if it do, not from those lips of thine
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee.
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!
poem by William Shakespeare
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To Coleridge
Oh! there are spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair
As star-beams among twilight trees:
Such lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.
With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
And moonlight seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things,
Thou dost hold commune, and rejoice
When they did answer thee, but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.
And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams that were never meant for thine,
Another's wealth: tame sacrifice
To a fond faith ! still dost thou pine?
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands?
Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope
On the false earth's inconstancy?
Did thine own mind afford no scope
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles?
Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled
Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted;
The glory of the moon is dead;
Night's ghosts and dreams have now departed;
Thine own soul still is true to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery.
This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase: the mad endeavour
Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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In The Night
Where art thou, thou lost face,
Which, yet a little while, wert making mirth
At these new years which seemed too sad to be?
Where art thou fled which for a minute's space
Shut out the world and wert my world to me?
And now a corner of this idle Earth,
A broken shadow by the day forgot,
Is wide enough to be thy hiding place,
And thou art shrunk away and needest not
The darkness of this night to cover thee.
Where art thou hidden? In the boundless air
My hands go forth to thee, and search and feel
As through the universe. I hold the night
Caught in my arms, and yet thou art not there.
Where art thou? What if I should strike a light
So suddenly that thou couldst never steal
Back to thy shadows? What if I should find
Thee standing close to me with all thy hair
Trailing about me and thine eyes grown blind
With looking at me vainly through the night?
There are three rings upon thy hand to--night,
One with a sapphire stone, and one there is
Coiled like a snake, and one on which my name
Is written in strange gems. By this dim light
I cannot read if it be writ the same.
See, I have worn no other ring but this!
Why dost thou look at it with eyes estranged?
Is it not thine?--Ah, God! Thou readest right!
And it is changed, and thou and I are changed,
And I have written there another name.
Oh happiness, how has it slipped away!
We, who once lived and held it in our hand!
What is the rest that these new years can bring?
Did we not love it in our love's to--day,
And pleasure which was so divine a thing,
The sweetest and most strange to understand?
And that is why it left regret behind,
As though a wild bird suddenly should stay
A moment at our side and we should find
When we looked up that it had taken wing.
And thou, hast thou forgotten how to love?
Hast thou no kissing in thy lips? Thy tongue,
Has it no secret whisper for my ear?
I have been watching thee to see thee move
A little closer to my side in fear
Of the long night. Oh, there is room among
The pillows for thy head if thou wouldst sleep!
And thou art cold, and I would wrap my love
To my warm breast and so my vigil keep
And be alone with darkness and with her.
Thou standest with thy hand upon my heart,
As once thou used to stand, to feel it beat.
Doth it beat calmer now than in those days?
Thy foolish finger--tips will leave a smart,
If they so press upon my side. Thy gaze
Is burning me. Oh speak a word and cheat
This darkness into pain, if pain must be,
And wake me back to sorrow with a start,
For I am weary of the night and thee
And thy strange silence and thy stranger face.
Canst thou not speak? Thy tale was but begun.
How can I answer thee a tale untold?
Whisper it quick before the morning break.
How loud thou weepest! Listen, there is one
Dreaming beside me who must not awake.
Close in my ear !--Ah! child, thy lips are cold,
Because thou art forsaken.--Misery!
Is there not room enough beneath the sun
For her, and thee, and me?
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Speak O Withered Leaves, Speak.
Cover her eyes, her stony looks,
She is dead;
And ring the bell for she is dead
Where one age ends the other begins
-the long dark distracted night.
How could she die, a fairy and so young
O want what more misery can thou wring
Two crusts of bread and a form erased.
O withered leaves wert thou a rose?
Could beauty be more beautiful
I cans't say my fancy fails.
How could I describe thee
Which part were more beautiful
Speak o speak utter but few words
But no; thou woulds't not speak
And I hear no more thy sweet voice.
O breathless breast thou woulds't heave no more,
But once did heave more beautifully
Than stormy waves of a surging sea
On a moonlit night.
O wild affections whither art thou fled?
Aren't these the eyes that charged me once
Quiver o lips quiver a little,
That I may see that a life yet lives:
Utter but few words even though in dread
Of this society; but dread not thou
-no more- this society.
But where is life?
Thou blush not in the presence of thy love;
Thine eyes have no more arrows in their sheath;
Thou breathe not and there are springs no more;
Adieu love! Adieu o phantom of love
For I go crazy, I must go.
But tarry for I must see
Art thou really dead or stone deceiveth me
O senses work- Touch!
So cold and hard is bosom! Is it marble!
May be stone deceiveth me! But no
No art can create thy form, O love
And mine eyes are not deceived in thy form.
Ere I leave I give thou this pledge:
That I shall have revenge
I shall shake heavens and destroy this earth
Yes! this earth
Where beasts who live, value their lust
Above humane emotions.
Adieu love! look not so coldly
For I see my end. Adieu! Adieu! ...............[1960]
Eros
Why hast thou nothing in thy face?
Thou idol of the human race,
Thou tyrant of the human heart,
The flower of lovely youth that art;
Yea, and that standest in thy youth
An image of eternal Truth,
With thy exuberant flesh so fair,
That only Pheidias might compare,
Ere from his chaste marmoreal form
Time had decayed the colours warm;
Like to his gods in thy proud dress,
Thy starry sheen of nakedness.
Surely thy body is thy mind,
For in thy face is nought to find,
Only thy soft unchristen’d smile,
That shadows neither love nor guile,
But shameless will and power immense,
In secret sensuous innocence.
O king of joy, what is thy thought?
I dream thou knowest it is nought,
And wouldst in darkness come, but thou
Makest the light where’er thou go.
Ah yet no victim of thy grace,
None who e’er long’d for thy embrace,
Hath cared to look upon thy face.
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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Behind Waves Of Ebony Hair
I see thou changed thy hair color
For his liking and mine despair
To hide thy beauty to mine dolor
Every time I spy at thou there.
I begged thee to never change
A single hair, or who thou art
For I loved thee known and loved thee strange
With all my love, all mine heart.
Thy look so dark with love's desire
Behind thine waves of thine hair ebony
Hiding from him, revealing to me
Thy secret love of thy hidden desire.
Thou still love me then, thou love me so
Still I'll never be loved, for I don't know.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Give to Love
Love came knocking on thy door
With you in sight to love and adore
But thine did give
All that thou have and
need to live?
You gave thine lips for love to speak
You gave thine heart for love's heart's weak
You gave thine face, to love to trace
its tears across thee a sorrowful place
thou give to thy loss when it comes to love!
You gave thine soul to love's control
You gave love thy hand to hold
You gave thy feet for love to kiss
You gave thy happiness to love's bliss
You gave thy breast for love to touch
You gave thine body for love to clutch.
But what did love give thee?
Love took and took and left thee with nothing!
With nothing now you are at peace, thou art free!
This is what love did to me!
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Guilo
Yes, yes! I love thee, Guilo; thee alone.
Why dost thou sigh, and wear that face of sorrow?
The sunshine is to-day's, although it shone
On yesterday, and may shine on to-morrow.
I love but thee, my Guilo! be content;
The greediest heart can claim but present pleasure.
The future is thy God's. The past is spent.
To-day is thine; clasp close the precious treasure.
See how I love thee, Guilo! Lips and eyes
Could never under thy fond gaze dissemble.
I could not feign these passion-laden sighs;
Deceiving thee, my pulses would not tremble.
'So I loved Romney.' Hush, thou foolish one—
I should forget him wholly wouldst thou let me;
Or but remember that his day was done
From that supremest hour when first I met thee.
'And Paul?' Well, what of Paul? Paul had blue eyes,
And Romney gray, and thine are darkly tender!
One finds fresh feelings under change of skies—
A new horizon brings a newer splendor.
As I love thee
I never loved before;
Believe me, Guilo, for I speak most truly.
What though to Romney and to Paul I swore
The self-same words; my heart now worships newly.
We never feel the same emotion twice:
No two ships ever ploughed the self-same billow;
The waters change with every fall and rise;
So, Guilo, go contented to thy pillow.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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