Love by James Russell Lowell

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend January 23, 2016   Love   James Russell Lowell

True Love is but a humble, low-born thing, And hath its food served up in earthen ware; It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the every-dayness of this work-day world, Baring its tender feet to every roughness, Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray From Beauty’s law of plainness and content; A simple, fire-side thing, whose quiet smile Can warm earth’s poorest hovel to a home; Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must, And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless, Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth In bleak November, and, with thankful heart, Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit, As full of sunshine to our aged eyes As when it nursed the blossoms of our spring. Such is true Love, which steals into the heart With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, And hath its will through blissful gentleness,— Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare, Whirrs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults, Now with flaw-seeking eyes like needle-points, But, loving kindly, ever looks them down With the o’ercoming faith of meek forgiveness; A love that shall be new and fresh each hour, As is the golden mystery of sunset, Or the sweet coming of the evening-star, Alike, and yet most unlike, every day, And seeming ever best and fairest now; A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks, But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer, Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts By a clear sense of inward nobleness, A love that in its object findeth not All grace and beauty, and enough to sate Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good Found there, it sees but Heaven-granted types Of good and beauty in the soul of man, And traces, in the simplest heart that beats, A family-likeness to its chosen one, That claims of it the rights of brotherhood. For Love is blind but with the fleshly eye, That so its inner sight may be more clear; And outward shows of beauty only so Are needful at the first, as is a hand To guide and to uphold an infant’s steps: Great spirits need them not; their earnest look Pierces the body’s mask of thin disguise, And beauty ever is to them revealed, Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay, With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze, Yearning to be but understood and loved.            This poem is in the public domain. About This Poem   “Love” was published in Lowell’s book Poems (J. Owen, 1844).   James Russell Lowell was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on February 22, 1819. Lowell’s books include A Year’s Life, and Other Poems (Little and Brown, 1841), The Vision of Sir Launfal (George Nichols, 1848), and Under the Willows and Other Poems (Fields, Osgood, and Co., 1869). Lowell died on August 12, 1891. Poetry by Lowell   Poems (BiblioLife, 2009)  "Moreover, the Moon—" by Mina Loy "The Pumpkin" by John Greenleaf Whittier "The Day Is Done" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Poem-a-Day   Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-a-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038