Love

Love's Sanctuary!

This yearning heart (Love! witness what I say)
Enshrines thy form as purely as it may,
Round which, as to some spirit uttering bliss,
My thoughts all stand ministrant night and day
Like saintly Priests, that dare not think amiss.

Coleridge

Love the Squadron of Poets 7

To Asra

Are there two things, of all which men possess,
That are so like each other and so near,
As mutual Love seems like to Happiness?
Dear Asra, woman beyond utterance dear!
This Love which ever welling at my heart,
Now in its living fount doth heave and fall,
Now overflowing pours thro' every part
Of all my frame, and fills and changes all,
Like vernal waters springing up through snow,
This Love that seeming great beyond the power
Of growth, yet seemeth ever more to grow,
Could I transmute the whole to one rich Dower
Of Happy Life, and give it all to thee,
Thy lot, methinks, were Heaven, thy age, Eternity!

S.T.Coleridge
__________

Poets from the Horn of Africa, well -- or the entire Africa are welcome to join the Squadron of Poets linked to from the title above. Thanks.

Love the Squadron of Poets 6

Come slowly, Eden
Lips unused to thee.
Bashful, sip thy jasmines,
As the fainting bee,
Reach late his flower,
Round her chamber hums,
Counts his nectars-alights,
And is lost in balms

Emily Dickinson
An American Poetess
1830-1886

Love

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.

This is a verse from the selected poems of S.T. Coleridge

Love the Squadron of Poets 5

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

Love the Squadron of Poets 4

She half inclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

Love the Squadron of Poets 3

Her bosom heaved- she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

Love

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Love

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An indistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long!

Love

And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land;--

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain--
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain;--

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay;--

His dying words- but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

Love the Squadron of Poets 2

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,--

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Friend,
This miserable Knight!

Love

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!

Love the Squadron of Poets

I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.

Love

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land!

love

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
but gaze upon her face.


More about love at love above..

Love

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

Love

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, when'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

Love

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Love

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And SHE was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

Love

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

Love

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

S.T.Coleridge - Selected Poems

The Sorrow of Love!

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;

Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.

"W.B.Yeats" The Rose 1893.


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Love Only!

Love Only! Is Your Blog So, Blog It! I publish my English poetry here, in addition to some verses from well-known poets and singers. However, I wrote most of my pomes in Arabic, as English is my second language. I studied French and I spoke Danish too.

I may need to go back to study French more because I love this language and I think it is the best language in the world. That is only my feeling although English is very important international language.

This is an extension in verse and fiction to "My Love Nature" in images. Images to this concept are found here at My Love Nature