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Love Poem Collection - 36
A Lecture Upon The Shadow by John Donne
Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, love, in love's philosophy.
These three hours that we have spent,
Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produc'd.
But, now the sun is just above our head,
We do those shadows tread,
And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd.
So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did, and shadows, flow
From us, and our cares; but now 'tis not so.
That love has not attain'd the high'st degree,
Which is still diligent lest others see.
Except our loves at this noon stay,
We shall new shadows make the other way.
As the first were made to blind
Others, these which come behind
Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.
If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,
To me thou, falsely, thine,
And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow longer all the day;
But oh, love's day is short, if love decay.
Love is a growing, or full constant light,
And his first minute, after noon, is night.
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The Shower of Blossoms by Robert Herrick
Love in a shower of blossoms came
Down, and half drown'd me with the same;
The blooms that fell were white and red;
But with such sweets commingled,
As whether (this) I cannot tell,
My sight was pleased more, or my smell;
But true it was, as I roll'd there,
Without a thought of hurt or fear,
Love turn'd himself into a bee,
And with his javelin wounded me;---
From which mishap this use I make;
Where most sweets are, there lies a snake;
Kisses and favours are sweet things;
But those have thorns, and these have stings.
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Misconceptions by Robert Browning
I.
This is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprang to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,---
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
II.
This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on---
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!
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That Time of Year Thou Mayst in Me Behold by William Shakespeare
That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self that seals up all in rest.
In me tho see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death bed, whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
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The Funeral of Phillips Brooks by Katharine Lee Bates
I
White lies the winter on the weary land,
Winter of many a loss and many a grief;
Yet must this burial day be counted chief
Of sorrows and most sore to understand;
For God hath laid the lightning of His hand
On His own signal tower, for all too brief
A date outsoaring mists of unbelief
To drink the living blue, a beacon grand.
But whilst the desolate throng without the portal
Of solemn Trinity in silence waits,
As listening for the beat of passing wing,
To view that clay which harbored an immortal,
Down the bleak air a tender breath of spring
Steals like a waft from Heaven's glad-opening gates.
II
Within the beauteous walls again too strait
For the wistful flocks who mourn their shepherd gone,--
Since here all creeds one shining garment don,
One seamless robe,--our heavy spirits wait
On the old Hebraic anthem passionate
And fall of hallowed words that bear upon
Their cadences strange consolation won
From centuries of faith reverberate.
But oh, the empty pulpit eloquent
Of death, the sable pulpit over all!
Yet even here is soul with flesh at strife;
For wise and tender was the hand that lent
A glowing wreath to that funereal pall,--
Against the gloom the exultant flush of life.
III
'For all the saints who from their labors rest'--
White gleam the lilies on the lifted bier,
As reverently the youthful bearers rear
Their sad, belovéd burden, pacing west,
Whilst all that host, as from a single breast,
One voice of praise outringing sweet and clear,
Peals the triumphal chant he loved to hear:
'Thy name, O Jesu, be forever blest.'
Ah, turn and watch the pageantry of woe
Out through the darkened door. The glory-hymn
Wavers a space, but swells again, for lo!
The dismal pomp of death, the mourners slow,
The shrouded casket on the vision dim,
That gleam of Easter lilies dazzles so.
IV
The train wends outward, where new thousands wait
Beneath an ampler temple-arch of sky,
To speed with murmurous prayer and paean high
The royal progress of that sombre state;
On through the streets to sorrow consecrate;
On where thy sons, hushed Harvard, gather nigh,
To glean a blessing from the passing by;
And so to Auburn's unrestoring gate.
Is this thy victory, Death? Not thine, not thine,
Howe'er to grief we grant her natural throes.
He prophesied of life;we asked a sign,
So little mortals know for what they pray,
And by his open grave amid the snows
A chastened city keeps her Easter day.
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