Theme:

Love

Browse poems about

Love

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
This Living Hand

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.

This Living Hand
X

Unknown, she was my favorite shape,

She who relieved me of the worry of being a man,

And I see her and I lose her and I suffer

My pain, like a little sunlight in cold water.

X
Yussouf

A stranger came one night to Yussouf’s tent,

Saying, “Behold one outcast and in dread,

Against whose life the bow of power is bent,

Who flies, and hath not where to lay his head;

I come to thee for shelter and for food,

To Yussouf, called through all our tribes ‘The Good.’”

“This tent is mine,” said Yussouf, “but no more

Than it is God’s; come in, and be at peace;

Freely shalt thou partake of all my store

As I of his who buildeth over these

Our tents his glorious roof of night and day,

And at whose door none ever yet heard Nay.”

So Yussouf entertained his guest that night,

And, waking him ere day, said: “Here is gold,

My swiftest horse is saddled for thy flight,

Depart before the prying day grow bold.”

As one lamp lights another, nor grows less,

So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.

That inward light the stranger’s face made grand,

Which shines from all self-conquest; kneeling low,

He bowed his forehead upon Yussouf’s hand,

Sobbing: “O Sheik, I cannot leave thee so;

I will repay thee; all this thou hast done

Unto that Ibrahim who slew thy son!”

“Take thrice the gold,” said Yussouf, “for with thee

Into the desert, never to return,

My one black thought shall ride away from me;

First-born, for whom by day and night I yearn,

Balanced and just are all of God’s decrees;

Thou art avenged, my first-born, sleep in peace!”

Yussouf
The Future Life

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps

The disembodied spirits of the dead,

When all of thee that time could wither sleeps

And perishes among the dust we tread?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain

If there I meet thy gentle presence not;

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again

In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there?

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given;

My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?

In meadows fanned by heaven’s life-breathing wind,

In the resplendence of that glorious sphere,

And larger movements of the unfettered mind,

Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

The love that lived through all the stormy past,

And meekly with my harsher nature bore,

And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last.

Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light,

Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will

In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell,

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll;

And wrath has left its scar—that fire of hell

Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet though thou wear’st the glory of the sky,

Wilt thou not keep the same belovèd name,

The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,

Lovelier in heaven’s sweet climate, yet the same?

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home,

The wisdom that I learned so ill in this—

The wisdom which is love—till I become

Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

The Future Life
The Toys

My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,

Having my law the seventh time disobey’d,

I struck him, and dismiss’d

With hard words and unkiss’d,

—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,

I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darken’d eyelids, and their lashes yet

From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan,

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;

For, on a table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone,

A piece of glass abraded by the beach,

And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells,

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray’d

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath,

Not vexing Thee in death,

And Thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly not less

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,

Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’

The Toys
Bereavement

Nay, weep not, dearest, though the child be dead;

He lives again in Heaven’s unclouded life,

With other angels that have early fled

From these dark scenes of sorrow, sin, and strife.

Nay, weep not, dearest, though thy yearning love

Would fondly keep for earth its fairest flowers,

And e’en deny to brighter realms above

The few that deck this dreary world of ours:

Though much it seems a wonder and a woe

That one so loved should be so early lost,

And hallowed tears may unforbidden flow

To mourn the blossom that we cherished most,

Yet all is well; God’s good design I see,

That where our treasure is, our hearts may be!

Bereavement
Dirge of Love

Come away, come away, death,

And in sad cypres let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O prepare it!

My part of death, no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave

To weep there!

Dirge of Love
By the Sea

The clouds have gathered soon to-night,

They hang above the quiet sea,

And through the air a muffled sound

Is borne to me

From that dim island where the souls

Of all the Ages lie at rest;

It beats upon my throbbing brain

And troubled breast.

If thou wert standing on the shore

Beside me now, and held my hand,

I think that I should hear it plain

And understand

For there is one note in it all,

Which loud and clear has come to me,

And I have caught it in my heart

To tell to thee.

“Eyes steadfast from the watch of worlds,

Hearts big with secrets of the spheres,

We have no power to move you now

With hopes or fears.”

“No power,” thy soul has filled my soul,

Thy life has rounded all of mine,

Thy love has girt me with a strength

Which is divine.

And when that sound perchance one day

Comes to us with a mighty roll,

We two shall stand unmoved, and hear

And learn the whole.

By the Sea
Above the Clouds

’Mid white Sierras, that slope to the sea,

Lie turbulent lands.

Go dwell in the skies,

And the thundering tongues of Yosemitè

Shall persuade you to silence, and you shall be wise.

I but sing for the love of song and the few

Who loved me first and shall love me last;

And the storm shall pass as the storms have passed,

For never were clouds but the sun came through.

Above the Clouds