She walks in beauty

She walks in Beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Moving from the Mind into the Heart

Mind finds a path

to struggle along

never reaching the goal

heart knows it already rests

in the path of something wonderful

it cannot escape

mind seeks to hold on to

a still point

of final understanding

heart knows it is being held

by an unmoving whirlwind

that it will never comprehend

mind tries to feel safe enough

to allow love

out into the open

heart knows love is never cautious

and can not be kept secret

once all hope of refuge is abandoned

PROVERBS OF LOVE

PROVERBS OF LOVE

--One can be unhappy by oneself, but to be truly

tormented, one must love.

--Love is harder to accept than to give.

--To love is to embrace life. To love fully is to embrace

both death and life.

--The secret of happiness is simple: Be loving, giving,

caring.

Why, then, are so many unhappy?

Because they are afraid.

--Love only yourself, and you are alone.

Love only one other, and the two of you are alone.

Love only your family, and your family is alone.

Love only your nation, and your nation is alone.

There can be no communion, not even with yourself,

except through love of God.

I AM WITH YOU

PRETEND THIS POEM IS ME,

AND I AM WITH YOU

Pretend this poem is me, and I am with you;

I hold you in the circle of my fire.

Come into me, and time and space will vanish,

You and I alone, joined at the root.

There is a special room where I am with you;

I close the door and you are in my arms.

You become my skin, my self, my world,

Till I go back to sleep in lonely darkness.

So we defeat the miles and months between us;

We make love in our hearts if not in touch.

You are more to me in hope and passion

Than any man who brushes by my day

Fade far away

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-ey'd despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Ere I was old

Ere I was old.

Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!

O Youth! for years so many and sweet

'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,

I'll think it but a fond conceit--

It cannot be, that Thou art gone!

Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:--

And thou wert aye a masker bold!

What strange disguise hast now put on,

To make believe, that Thou art gone?

I see these locks in silvery slips,

This drooping gait, this altered size:

But springtide blossoms on thy lips,

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!

Life is but thought: so think I will

That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,

But the tears of mournful eve!

Where no hope is, life's a warning

That only serves to make us grieve,

When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve

With oft and tedious taking-leave,

Like some poor nigh-related guest,

That may not rudely be dismist.

Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,

And tells the jest without the smile.

Deep in my soul

Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,

Lonely and lost to light for evermore,

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,

Then trembles into silence as before.

There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp

Burns the slow flame, eternal--but unseen;

Which not the darkness of Despair can damp,

Though vain its ray as it had never been.

 Remember me--Oh! pass not thou my grave

Without one thought whose relics there recline:

The only pang my bosom dare not brave

Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.

My fondest--faintest--latest accents hear--

Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove;

Then give me all I ever asked--a tear,

The first--last--sole reward of so much love!