Poetry Archives

The home of love is her blue eyes,
Wherein all joy, all beauty lies,
More sweet than hopes of paradise,
    She being young.

Speak of her with a miser’s praise;
She craves no golden speech; her ways
Wind through charmed nights and magic days,
    She being young.

She is so far from pain and death,
So warm her cheek, so sweet her breath
Glad words are all the words she saith,
    She being young.

Seeing her face, it seems not far
To Troy’s heroic field of war,
To Troy and all great things that are,
    She being young.