 | Claribel and Other Poems |  |
240
WHAT LOVE IS
Thou bidd'st me tell thee what love really is.
Not the mere toying of a boy and girl,—
She kissing his fair brow, and he a curl:
Love is not this.
Not the mere toying of a boy and girl,—
She kissing his fair brow, and he a curl:
Love is not this.
Thou bidd'st me tell thee what love really is.
Not the mere mingling of most passionate breath:
There are who have the Loved to very death,
And yet love miss.
Not the mere mingling of most passionate breath:
There are who have the Loved to very death,
And yet love miss.
Thou bidd'st me tell thee what love really is.
Not hope nor having: whoso love forget
Love's joy in their great task—to pay love's debt,—
Not paid with a kiss.
Not hope nor having: whoso love forget
Love's joy in their great task—to pay love's debt,—
Not paid with a kiss.
How shall I tell thee what love really is?
O Love! thy merest trifle is delight;
And passion's hell or heaven is infinite
In bale or bliss.
O Love! thy merest trifle is delight;
And passion's hell or heaven is infinite
In bale or bliss.
How shall I tell thee what love really is?
O Perfect Beauty! let my worship be
The happiest bloom of thy eternity.
True love is this.
O Perfect Beauty! let my worship be
The happiest bloom of thy eternity.
True love is this.
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