Some of these poems appear in "The Library of Poetry and Song" originally edited by William Cullen Bryant. Published in 1925 by Doubleday, Page & Company, Garden City, New York. This also carries the following copyrights: copyright 1925 by George Spencer Hulbert; copyright 1870 and 1877 by J.B. Ford and Company; copyright 1880, 1996, 1895 and 1900 by Fords, Howard, and Hulbert. As you might note, these poems have been around for a while and are in the old style.
To return to this Table of Contents, click on a divider.
The following three poems make a delightful surprise for the object of your affections. Try presenting one on a suitable notecard (handwritten of course) along with a single perfect flower. Even better in some situations, let them find the note and flower on their pillow.
|The fountains mingle with the river,|
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever,
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle: --
Why not I with thine?
|See! The mountains kiss high heaven,|
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea: --
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
|--- Percy Bysshe Shelley|
|He that loves a rosy cheek,|
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from starlike eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
|But a smooth and steadfast mind,|
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires: --
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
|--- Thomas Carew|
|Love Not Me For Comely Grace|
|Love not me for comely grace,|
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart;
For those may fail or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever;
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why.
So hast though the same reason still
To dote upon me ever.
O Heart of mine, we shouldn't|
What we've missed of calm we couldn't
Have, you know:
What we've met of stormy pain,
And of sorrow's driving rain,
We can better meet again,
If it blow:
For, we know, not every morrow|
Can be sad:
So, forgetting all the sorrow
We have had,
Let us fold away our fears,
And put by our foolish tears,
And through all the coming years,
Just be glad.
|--- James Whitcomb Riley|
The Dark is kind and cozy;|
The Dark is soft and deep;
The Dark will pat my pillow
And love me as I sleep...
The Dark is smooth as velvet,
And gentle as the air...
And he is good to children
And people everywhere...
The Dark can see and love me
Without a bit of light...
He gives me dreams and resting;
He brings the gentle night...
God made the Dark|
Could close its tired eyes
And sleep awhile in comfort
Beneath the starry skies...
The Daytime, just like children,
Needs rest from work and play,
So it can give us children
Another happy day...
God made the Dark for children
And birdies in their nest...
All in the Dark He watches
And guards us while we rest.
|--- John Martin|
|The Irish Dreamer|
She sat amid the alders|
hidden from their view.
And stared into the stream
which slowly ambled through.
On lazy summer afternoons
she'd imagine the great might
of Norsemen, Danes, all Vikings,
spoiling for a fight.
Thundering pounds of horseflesh
beneath the legs of men
who sought a simpler glory;
it seems now, not then.
Envisioned through romantic eyes
they lose their rough veneer;
the plundering forgotten
the ravaged and the fear.
Behold the Irish dreamer
wishing for her mate,
as though the little pixies|
could influence her fate.
She still thinks that pots of gold
can be found at rainbows end;
that knights are not just from the old;
that broken hearts can mend.
That fairies kiss your skin
leaving freckles where they land
as you search among the flowers
to catch one in your hand.
That love is not for taking,
but something that you give;
that loving someone doesn't mean
you dictate how they live.
That rain will wash the tears away;
the sun will make you smile;
that dreams really will come true
if she just waits awhile.
|~ For Hannah ~||© 1994 Kathleen A. O'Connell|
|The Dreamer's Dream|
I soar upon a midnight sky|
and think of what I've known.
I venture toward a destiny
to reap the seeds I've sown.
I travel on a dreamer's wings
and ponder not my fate.
And walk with mixed emotions
toward the distant gate.
The flesh and blood awaits me;
the dreamer's dream come true
I hesitate and pause a while|
to admire the sky so blue.
I wonder at my boldness;
I shake my head and smile.
Then head on toward the door,
humming all the while.
I step across the threshhold;
I touch another's hand.
I was one but now I'm two;
the dreamer's dream be damned.
|© 1993 Kathleen A. O'Connell|
|A Logical Deduction|
While you are contemplating the logic|
of a particularly difficult quest;
when you come to conclusions
that are different from the rest;
do you find that all your answers
can be found in these equations;
these mathematical endeavors
that seem such deep invasions
into the workings of your mind;
that you are without a doubt
a person of great knowledge
far above the average lout?
While you are stressing to the limit
every cell within your brain;
such a struggle to discover
that the truth must be quite plain;
do you lack in understanding
how others do not see;
what lays right there before them
as simple as can be;
set down in well known letters
or numbers in a row;
with a single answer
for anyone to know?
Do you think that you have covered
all the probabilities;
and figured in the aspects|
of the possibilities;
given due consideration
to the odds, the means, the ways;
and noted the discrepancies
on human error days;
such that you're unrivaled
in formulating answers;
and see the opposition
as merely spreading cancers?
Yet you are constantly ignoring
what you can't explain;
like why we feel a softness
when we hear a sweet refrain;
why the tears are falling
when our flesh is still intact;
why we understand you
when you are drenched in fact;
how can you be more whole
or better than the rest;
when you have long discarded
the part we find is best;
for your mind has worked its wonders
and relieved you of the notion
that there is splendid magic
in the feeling of emotion.
|© 1993 Kathleen A. O'Connell|
There sat a faded man,|
upon the moonlit breakwaters,
who sang a heartlost song
toward the shore.
His song was sweet as heaven,
but no one heard the words,
for they carried on the rushing wind
and out upon the empty sea.
|© 1974 Kathleen A. O'Connell|
When you touched the early morning bloom|
dew sprinkled down like sand;
would I could have spiked it and
put affection in your hand.
When the sparrow started singing
you grimaced at the bird;
would I could have made it
a love song that you heard.
When I sometimes catch you glaring
at the ring with which we're bound;
would I could have forged it
into a treasure that you found.
|© 1993 Kathleen A. O'Connell|
The sliver of light wiggles and slithers|
like a river within a river;
pointing to me where I stand on the sand;
for I am the giver, the giver.
Do it he laughs, bare your breast to the moon;
see if he'll swoon, see if he'll swoon.
He stands as a goader, a purveyor of saints,
a sentinel dark in the shadow of paints;
that smudge the entrance to the beach forlorn;
where a martyr's being born.
The orb in the sea shimmers and quivers|
like a face within a face;
nodding and winking, smiling and blinking;
for I am Grace, I am Grace.
Do it for me, he whispers, if you dare;
to see if you care, see if you care.
The wind whips the wave, scatters it high,
sprinkles its kisses along my thigh;
takes what it can, takes what is there;
see if I care, see if I care.
|In memory of G.C.||© 1993 Kathleen A. O'Connell|
Love which plays for the mere sake of love|
would be a fine note to add to my symphony,
but the music must be richer as my ear becomes atuned.
I sense an elusive, ethereal melody, its strains
weave through my soul in taunting sensuous flirtation,
it beckons, nay! It demands that I play it true.
It will take no notes falsely played on instruments
not formed by hand, with drips of sweat and loving caress
hours of devoted time to trace its patterns so.
That the musician who breathes it to life
lays his hands on its very soul and together
they vibrate a note that no other can compare.
It is a note that may never be played here.
It may echo unfinished; its symphony never found
but it will echo untarnished by a lesser sound.
And my symphony, though incomplete
will never again be other than sweet.
|In memory of G 12/94||© 1994 Kathleen A. O'Connell|
Last updated May 18, 2008|
Copyright © 1996-2008 Kathleen A. O'Connell, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.