Love Poems

SEASON OF LOVE

Crawford, Isabella Valancy (1850-1887)
WHEN Spring in sunny woodland lay,
And gilded buds were sparely set
On oak tree and the thorny may,
I gave my love a violet.
“O Love,” she said, and kissed my mouth
With one light, tender maiden kiss,
“There are no rich blooms in the south
So fair to me as this!”
When Summer reared her haughty crest,
We paused beneath the ruddy stars;
I placed a rose upon her breast,
Plucked from the modest casement bars.
“O Love,” she said, and kissed my mouth–
Heart, heart, rememb’rest thou the bliss?–
“In east or west, in north or south,
I know no rose but this!”
When Autumn raised the purple fruit
In clusters to his bearded lips,
I laid a heartsease on the lute
That sang beneath her finger-tips.
“O Love,” she said–and fair her eyes
Smiled thro’ the dusk upon the lea–
“No heartsease glows beneath the skies
But this thou givest me!”
When Winter wept at shaking doors,
And holly trimmed his ermine vest,
And wild winds maddened on the moors,
I laid a flower upon her breast.
“Dear Heart,” I whispered to the clay,
Which stilly smiled yet answered not,
“Bear thou to Heaven itself away
True love’s Forget-me-not!”

LOVE IN A DAIRY
Crawford, Isabella Valancy (1850-1887)
OF all the spots for making love,
Give me a shady dairy,
With crimson tiles, and blushing smiles
From its presiding fairy;
The jolly sunbeams peeping in
Thro’ vine leaves all a-flutter,
Like greetings sent from Phoebus to
The Goddess of Fresh Butter.
The swallows twittering in the eaves,
The air of Summer blowing
Thro’ open door from where a score
Of tall rose-trees are growing,
A distant file of hollyhocks,
A rugged bush of tansy,
And nearer yet beside the steps
A gorgeous purple pansy;
Suggestive scents of new-mown hay,
From lowland meadows coming;
The distant ripple of a stream,
And drowsy sounds of humming
From able-bodied bees that bevy
About the morning-glory,
Or dawdle pleasantly around
The apple-blossoms hoary.
A rosy bloom pervades the spot;
And where the shadows darkle,
In glittering rows the shining pans
Show many a brilliant sparkle.
As snowy as my lady’s throat,
Or classic marble urn,
In central floor there proudly stands
The scourËd white-wood churn.
And she who reigns o’er churn and pan–
In truth, my friend, between us,
My dimpled Chloe is more fair
Than Milo’s famous Venus.
Mark, mark those eyes so arch and dark,
Those lips like crimson clover,
And ask yourself, as well you may,
How I could prove a rover.
Talk not to me of moonlit groves,
Of empress, belle, or fairy;
To me the fairest love of loves
Is Chloe of the Dairy.

LATE LOVED–WELL LOVED

Crawford, Isabella Valancy (1850-1887)
HE stood beside her in the dawn–
And she his Dawn and she his Spring.
From her bright palm she fed her fawn,
Her swift eyes chased the swallow’s wing;
Her restless lips, smile-haunted, cast
Shrill silver calls to hound and dove;
Her young locks wove them with the blast.
To the flushed azure shrine above
The light boughs o’er her golden head
Tossed emerald arm and blossom palm;
The perfume of their prayer was spread
On the sweet wind in breath of balm.
“Dawn of my heart,” he said, “O child,
Knit they pure eyes a space with mine:
O crystal child eyes, undefiled,
Let fair love leap from mine to thine!”
“The Dawn is young,” she, smiling, said,
“Too young for Love’s dear joy and woe;
Too young to crown her careless head
With his ripe roses. Let me go
Unquestioned for a longer space;
Perchance when day is at the flood
In thy true palm I’ll gladly place
Love’s flower in its rounding bud.
But now the day is all too young,
The Dawn and I are playmates still.”
She slipped the blossomed boughs among,
He strode beyond the violet hill.
Again they stand–Imperial Noon
Lays her red sceptre on the earth–
Where golden hangings make a gloom,
And far-off lutes sing dreamy mirth.
The peacocks cry to lily cloud
From the white gloss of balustrade;
Tall urns of gold the gloom make proud;
Tall statues whitely strike the shade
And pulse in the dim quivering light
Until, most Galatea-wise,
Each looks from base of malachite
With mystic life in limbs and eyes.
Her robe–a golden wave that rose,
And burst, and clung as water clings
To her long curves–about her flows.
Each jewel on her white breast sings
Its silent song of sun and fire.
No wheeling swallows smite the skies
And upward draw the faint desire,
Weaving its mystery in her eyes.
In the white kisses of the lips
Of her long fingers lies a rose:
Snow-pale beside her curving lips,
Red by her snowy breast it glows.
“Noon of my soul,” said he, “behold
The day is ripe, the rose full blown!
Love stands in panoply of gold,
To Jovian height and strength now grown;
No infant he–a king he stands,
And pleads with thee for love again!”
“Ah, yes!” she said, “in all known lands
He kings it–lord of subtlest pain!
The moon is full, the rose of fair–
Too fair! ’tis neither white nor red!
I know the rose that love should wear
Must redden as the heart hath bled!
The moon is mellow bright, and I
Am happy in its perfect glow.
The slanting sun the rose may dye,
But for the sweet noon–let me go.”
She parted–shimmering thro’ the shade,
Bent the fair splendor of her head.
“Would the rich noon were past,” he said;
“Would the pale rose were flushed to red!”
Again. The noon is past and Night
Binds on his brow the blood-red Mars;
Down dusky vineyards dies the fight,
And blazing hamlets slay the stars.
Shriek the shrill shells; the heated throats
Of thundrous cannon burst; and high
Scales the fierce joy of bugle notes
The flame-dimmed splendours of the sky.
He, dying, lies beside his blade,
Clear smiling as a warrior blest
With victory smiles; thro’ sinister shade
Gleams the White Cross upon her breast.
“Soul of my soul, or is it night
Or is it dawn, or is it day?
I see no more nor dark nor light,
I hear no more the distant fray.”
“‘Tis Dawn,” she whispers, “Dawn at last,
Bright flushed with love’s immortal glow.
For me as thee all earth is past!
Late loved–well loved–now let us go!”

Ephelia (fl.1679)

To one that asked me why I lov’d J.G.
Why do I Love? go, ask the Glorious Sun
Why every day it round the world doth Run:
Ask Thames and Tyber, why they ebb and flow:
Ask Damask Roses why in June they blow:
Ask Ice and Hail, the reason, why they’re Cold:
Decaying Beauties, why they will grow Old:
They’l tell thee, Fate, that every thing doth move,
Inforces them to this, and me to Love.
There is no Reason for our Love or Hate,
‘Tis irresistible, as Death or Fate;
‘Tis not his Face; I’ve sense enough to see,
That is not good, though doated on by me:
Nor is’t his Tongue, that has this Conquest won;
For that at least is equall’d by my own:
His carriage can to none obliging be,
‘Tis Rude, Affected, full of Vanity:
Strangely Ill natur’d, Peevish and Unkind,
Unconstant, False, to Jealousie inclin’d;
His Temper cou’d not have so great a Pow’r,
‘Tis mutable, and changes every hour:
Those vigorous Years that Women so Adore
Are past in him: he’s twice my age and more;
And yet I love this false, this worthless Man,
With all the Passion that a Woman can;
Doat on his Imperfections, though I spy
Nothing to Love; I Love, and know not why.
Sure ’tis Decreed in the dark Book of Fate,
That I shou’d Love, and he shou’d be ingrate.
Love Poem #4

Joy
I AM wild, I will sing to the trees,
I will sing to the stars in the sky,
I love, I am loved, he is mine,
Now at last I can die!
I have heart-fire and singing to give,
I can tread on the grass or the stars,
Now at last I can live!

Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms
Thomas Moore
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.
I carry your heart with me(I carry it in
my heart)I am never without it(anywhere
I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
I fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
by e.e. cummings
Love Poem #8