Charles Harpur

Here you will find the Long Poem Love Sonnets of poet Charles Harpur

Love Sonnets

I. 
HOW beautiful doth the morning rise 
 O?er the hills, as from her bower a bride 
 Comes brightened?blushing with the shame-faced pride 
Of love that now consummated supplies 
All her full heart can wish, and to the eyes 
 Dear are the flowers then, in their green haunts spied, 
 Glist ning with dew: pleasant at noon the side 
Of shadowy mountains ridging to the skies: 
At eve ?tis sweet to hear the breeze advance 
 Through the responding forest dense and tall; 
And sweeter in the moonlight is the dance 
 And natural music of the waterfall: 
 And yet we feel not the full charm of all, 
Till love be near us with his magic glance. 


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II. 
WHY tower my spirits, and what means this wild 
 Commotion at my heart?this dreamy chase 
 Of possible joys that glow like stars in space? 
Now feel I even to all things reconciled, 
As all were one in spirit. Rudely up-piled 
 Brown hills grow beautiful; a novel grace 
 Exalts the moorland?s once unmeaning face; 
The river that, like a pure mind beguiled, 
 Grows purer for its errors, and the trees 
That fringe its margin with a dusky shade, 
 Seem robed in fairy wonder; and are these 
Exalted thus because with me surveyed 
 By one sweet sould whom well they seem to please 
Here at my side?an almost stranger maid? 


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III. 
NOW sunny, as the noontide heavens, are 
 The eyes of my sweet friend, and now serene 
 And chastely shadowy in their maiden mien; 
Or dream-power, sparkling like a brilliant star 
Fills all their blue depths, taking me afar 
 To where, in the rich past, through song is seen 
 Some sovereign beauty, knighthood?s mystic queen, 
Pluming with love the iron brows of war! 
Bright eyes before, with subtle lightning glance 
 Have kindled all my being into one 
Wild tumult; but a charm thus to enhance 
 My heart?s love-loyalty till now had none! 
And can this witchery be the work of chance? 
 I know not?I but know my rest is gone. 


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IV. 
A VAST and shadowy hope breaks up my rest 
 Unspoken; nor dares even my pen to write 
 How my pent spirit pineth day and night 
For one fair love with whom I might be blest! 
And ever with vague jealousies possessed 
 The more I languish, feeling these may so 
 Oppress affection that for very woe 
She longs at last to die deep buried in my breast! 
O for a beaker of the wine of love, 
 Or a deep draught of the Lethèan wave! 
The power a mutual passion to emove, 
 Or that repose which sealeth up the grave! 
Yet these my bonds are blameless; one more wise 
Had dreamt away his freedom, dreaming of her eyes. 


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V. 
HER image haunts me! Lo! I muse at even, 
 And straight it gathers from the gloom, to make 
 My soul its mirror; which (as some still lake 
Holds pictured in its depths the face of heaven) 
Through the hushed night retains it: when ?tis given 
 To take a warmer presence and incline 
 A glowing cheek burning with love to mine, 
Saying??The heart for which thou long hast stiven 
With looks so fancy-pale, I grant thee now; 
 And if for ruth, yet more for love?s sweet sake, 
My lips shall seal this promise on thy brow. ? 
 Thus blest in sleep?oh! Who would care to wake, 
 When the cold real from his belief must shake 
Such vows, like blossoms from a shattered bough? 


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VI. 
SHE loves me! From her own bliss-breathing lips 
 The live confession came, like rich perfume 
 From crimson petals bursting into bloom! 
And still my heart at the remembrance skips 
Like a young lion, and my tongue too trips 
 As drunk with joy! While very object seen 
 In life?s diurnal round wears in its mien 
A clear assurance that no doubts eclipse. 
And if the common things of nature now 
 Are like old faces flushed with new delight, 
Much more the consciousness of that rich vow 
 Deepens the beauteous, and refines the bright, 
 While throned I seem on love?s divinest height 
Mid all the glories glowing round its brow. 


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VII. 
FAIR as the day?a genial day serene 
 Of early summer, when the vital air 
 Breathes as ?twere God?s own breath, and blossoms rare 
Fill many a bush, or nestle in between 
The heapy folds of nature?s mantle green, 
 As they were happier for the joint joy the