 | The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod |  |
TO LOVE
All other themes will I disown,
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone
And who shall chide? thou hast been long
The Poet's dream, the Poet's song,
And he who has not prov'd thy fears
Enjoy'd thy hopes and wept thy tears,
Can never claim the name of bard,
Or win one sigh—his best reward.
All other themes will I disown
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone.
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone
And who shall chide? thou hast been long
The Poet's dream, the Poet's song,
And he who has not prov'd thy fears
Enjoy'd thy hopes and wept thy tears,
Can never claim the name of bard,
Or win one sigh—his best reward.
All other themes will I disown
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone.
The Muse whose whisperings inspire
The breathings of the Poet's lyre,
Speaks in the beating of the heart,
And 'tis its feelings which impart
That touching pathos to his strain
Which Art may seek t'excel in vain
And Love has been for ages whole
The first emotion of the soul,
Whose dulcet breath wakes tenderly
The heart's Aeolian melody.
All other themes will I disown,
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone.
The breathings of the Poet's lyre,
Speaks in the beating of the heart,
And 'tis its feelings which impart
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Which Art may seek t'excel in vain
And Love has been for ages whole
The first emotion of the soul,
Whose dulcet breath wakes tenderly
The heart's Aeolian melody.
All other themes will I disown,
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone.
I can admire fair Nature's sheen,
And where a violet has been,
Or rosebud throws its spells around
I deem the spot is holy ground.
But when I meet an eye of blue,
It seems to me of richer hue
Than ever deck'd the little flower
Of modesty in summer hour,
And the proud rosebud's deep'ning flush
Is nothing to a maiden's blush.
All other themes will I disown
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone.
And where a violet has been,
Or rosebud throws its spells around
I deem the spot is holy ground.
But when I meet an eye of blue,
It seems to me of richer hue
Than ever deck'd the little flower
Of modesty in summer hour,
And the proud rosebud's deep'ning flush
Is nothing to a maiden's blush.
All other themes will I disown
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone.
The stars that deck heaven's canopy
Like snow-white pearls in ebony,
The silvery moon whose tempering light
Softens the gloomy brow of night,
Are wondrous fair, but fairer far
Than silver moon or jewell'd star
The glance which tells without a word
The lover's suit is not unheard.
All other themes will I disown,
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone.
Like snow-white pearls in ebony,
The silvery moon whose tempering light
Softens the gloomy brow of night,
Are wondrous fair, but fairer far
Than silver moon or jewell'd star
The glance which tells without a word
The lover's suit is not unheard.
All other themes will I disown,
My strains, sweet Love, are thine alone.
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The wanton wind that sighs among
The ‘garden's belles’—a countless throng—
The dew that glitters like a gem
On the flower-Queen's diadem,
Let others praise, the tear that wells
From the spirit's glistening cells,
The kiss that takes that tear away
Shall be the subjects of my lay.
All other themes will I resign
My strains, sweet Love, are only thine.
The ‘garden's belles’—a countless throng—
The dew that glitters like a gem
On the flower-Queen's diadem,
Let others praise, the tear that wells
From the spirit's glistening cells,
The kiss that takes that tear away
Shall be the subjects of my lay.
All other themes will I resign
My strains, sweet Love, are only thine.
| The Uncollected Poems of Henry Timrod | |