Poetry Archives

Following upon the faint wind’s fickle courses
  A feather drifts and strays.
  My thought after her thought
  Floated—how many ways and days!

She swayed me as the wind swayeth a feather.
  I was a leaf upon
  Her breath, a dream within
  Her dream. The dream how soon was done!

For now all’s changed, not Time’s change more wondrous,
  I am her sun, and she
  (Herself doth swear) the moon;
  Or she the ship upon my sea.

How should this be? I know not; I so grossly
  Mastering her spirit pure.
  O, how can her bird’s breast
  My nervous and harsh hand endure?

Tell me if this be love indeed, fond lovers,
  That high stoop to low,
  Soul be to flesh subdued;
  That the sun around the earth should go?

I know not: I but know that love is misery,
  O’erfilled with delight.
  Day follows night: her love
  Is gay as day, yet strange as night.