Famous Sad Love Poems - Page 2

My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother
Can know it as I know,
Who broke my heart for her
When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

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.