Robert Crawford Poems

The wild hope of the poet finds a home
In the immaterial, as he clothes himself
In visionary raiment far off, where
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Of all the loves the heart can hold
The love of woman's first;
It was this one love that we had
Or e'er the world was cursed.
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E'en her own eyes tell Beauty she is fair;
And Love need know no language save his own
In any clime to read the heart's desire;
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We come like bats that out of a dark cave
Have suddenly been scared into the day,
Blear-eyed and vexed as here and there they flap,
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Good thoughts, 'tis said, are no more than good dreams
Save they be into action put, and that
On opportunity depends. Alas!
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It is the very tune of hearts, and rhythms
To all occasions truly musical.
He sticks as fast to her each whim as does
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'Tis when the wits I have are gone
The finer powers appear;
The spirit of phantasy leads me on,
And gives my heart her cheer.
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O touch her with thy heavenly beams,
Bright Moon! that she may know
Within his paradise of dreams
Love died not long ago.
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What other work in the world have I
Than but to sing my song, and die?
No other work of hate or love
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Her glove! It was rare Ben who sung it,
That best of gloves of the lady dead!
Another's here, as one had flung it
In anger at her lover's head.
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