romantic poetry

sad are they who know not love
though i am little as all little things
if the red slayer think he slays
why then, must we see?
the hypocritic days
beautiful
soft as the bed in the earth
i know what you're going to say
a pen of steel
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
if i should die, think only this of me
still thirteen years
over the river they beckon to me
beneath my window in a city street