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Valentine Poem Collection - 46
Recorders Ages Hence by Walt Whitman
Recorders ages hence!
Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior--I will
tell you what to say of me;
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest
lover,
The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his friend, his lover, was
fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love
within him--and freely pour'd it forth,
Who often walk'd lonesome walks, thinking of his dear friends, his
lovers,
Who pensive, away from one he lov'd, often lay sleepless and
dissatisfied at night,
Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov'd might
secretly be indifferent to him,
Whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in woods, on
hills, he and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain,
apart from other men,
Who oft as he saunter'd the streets, curv'd with his arm the shoulder
of his friend--while the arm of his friend rested upon him
also.
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Out of the Rolling Ocean, The Crowd by Walt Whitman
Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travel'd a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look'd on you,
For I fear'd I might afterward lose you.
(Now we have met, we have look'd, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love--we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure--the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour, carrying us diverse--yet cannot carry us diverse for
ever;
Be not impatient--a little space--Know you, I salute the air, the
ocean and the land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.)
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Hope by Joseph Rodman Drake
See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath,
One little star benignant peep,
To light along their trackless path
The wanderers of the stormy deep.
And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely form
In sorrow's gloomy night shall be
The sun that looks through cloud and storm
Upon a dark and moonless sea.
When heaven is all serene and fair,
Full many a brighter gem we meet;
'Tis when the tempest hovers there,
Thy beam is most divinely sweet.
The rainbow, when the sun declines,
Like faithless friend will disappear;
Thy light, dear star! more brightly shines
When all is wail and weeping here.
And though Aurora's stealing beam
May wake a morning of delight,
'Tis only thy consoling beam
Will smile amid affliction's night.
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Dirge by Anna Lætitia Barbauld
Written November 1808
Pure spirit! O where art thou now!
O whisper to my soul!
O let some soothing thought of thee,
This bitter grief controul!
'Tis not for thee the tears I shed,
Thy sufferings now are o'er;
The sea is calm, the tempest past,
On that eternal shore.
No more the storms that wrecked thy peace
Shall tear that gentle breast;
Nor Summer's rage, nor Winter's cold,
Thy poor, poor frame molest.
Thy peace is sealed, thy rest is sure,
My sorrows are to come;
Awhile I weep and linger here,
Then follow to the tomb.
And is the awful veil withdrawn,
That shrouds from mortal eyes,
In deep impenetrable gloom,
The secrets of the skies?
O, in some dream of visioned bliss,
Some trace of rapture, show
Where, on the bosom of thy God,
Thou rest'st from human woe!
Thence may thy pure devotion's flame
On me, on me descend;
To me thy strong aspiring hopes,
Thy faith, thy fervours lend.
Let these my lonely path illume,
And teach my weakened mind
To welcome all that's left of good,
To all that's lost resigned.
Farewell! With honour, peace, and love,
Be thy dear memory blest!
Thou hast no tears for me to shed,
When I too am at rest.
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Sonnet CXXVI by William Shakespeare
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
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