Famous Sad Love Poems - Page 2

I care not for the many,
    If but my few are kind;
How poor are they who never joy
    Apart from crowds can find.

Not fair to eyes my features;
    But sorrow I control,
If what beyond the vision lies
    Be lovely to your soul.

Tho' poor my lips in music,
    The heart sings low and sweet;
And you may prove that harmony
    Full-chorded and complete.

My brow aches not in crowning,
    I reign all thrones above,
Possession have I beyond price—
    The empire of your love.

To love and to be loved again—
    What more has life to give?
O fools—to scorn this highest joy,
    And yet lay claim to live!

Oh, had it been in Autumn, when all is spent and sere,
That the first numb chill crept on us, with its ghostly hint of fear,
I had borne to see love go, with things detached and frail,
Swept outward with the blowing leaf on the unresting gale.

But when day is a magic thing, when Time begins anew,
When every clod is parted by Beauty breaking through,—
How can it be that you and I bring Love no offering,
How can it be that frost should fall upon us in the Spring!

The year stood at its equinox
    And bluff the North was blowing,
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
    Green hardy things were growing;
I met a maid with shining locks
    Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
    Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
    Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail
    And sang a country ditty,
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
    That was not wise nor witty,
Pathetically rustical,
    Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat
    As true as church-bell ringers,
Unless she tapped time with her feet,
    Or squeezed it with her fingers;
Her clear unstudied notes were sweet
    As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight,
    Stood silent for a minute
To eye the pail, and creamy white
    The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid
    Herself so fresh and creamy:
"Good day to you," at last I said;
    She turned her head to see me:
"Good day," she said, with lifted head;
    Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked
    The grave cow heavy-laden:
I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,
    But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
    Than this in homely cotton,
Whose pleasant face and silky braid
    I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I
    Count with a sober sorrow;
Seven springs have come and passed me by,
    And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
    Free just for once from London,
To set my work upon the shelf
    And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,
    Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff North blow again,
    And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
    Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
    Crisp primrose leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks
    And butt their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan
    My serious thoughts demur to:
Seven years have passed for maid and man,
    Seven years have passed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown,
    Not rosy or too rosy;
Perhaps in farm-house of her own
    Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown.
    Good by, my wayside posy.