 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
LOVE.
Love is older than his birth.
So a loving poet sung.
How can he be so old, so young,
Born every hour throughout the earth?
Hearts grow cold,
And bells are tolled;
His heart has never ceased to beat,
Still his feet are dancing feet.
So a loving poet sung.
How can he be so old, so young,
Born every hour throughout the earth?
Hearts grow cold,
And bells are tolled;
His heart has never ceased to beat,
Still his feet are dancing feet.
Blazing in his strong right hand
Is the hymeneal torch;
He lights the bridegroom from the porch
To where the priests and altars stand;
Leads the maid,
Who, unafraid,
Passes then from maid to wife,
Knows the secret of her life!
Is the hymeneal torch;
He lights the bridegroom from the porch
To where the priests and altars stand;
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Who, unafraid,
Passes then from maid to wife,
Knows the secret of her life!
Earth hath kings—he kings them all.
Their rich palaces are his.
They were, and are not, but he is.
He sees great empires rise and fall,
Fall and rise,
With equal eyes;
Nothing disturbs his happy reign,
So our kissing lips remain.
Their rich palaces are his.
They were, and are not, but he is.
He sees great empires rise and fall,
Fall and rise,
With equal eyes;
Nothing disturbs his happy reign,
So our kissing lips remain.
When you press your lips to mine,
What care I for Time or Fate?
Death must pass me by, or wait
For a moment less divine.
Heart to heart,
We cannot part;
Henceforth we breathe immortal breath,
Love is mightier than Death.
What care I for Time or Fate?
Death must pass me by, or wait
For a moment less divine.
Heart to heart,
We cannot part;
Henceforth we breathe immortal breath,
Love is mightier than Death.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |