Love doesn't exist any more..

Many says love doesn't exists anymore, people whom we see are in deeply love later it doesn't.

I remember one of friend was saying rather complaining that he wants love but the love he is getting is materialistic,

It doesn't have that soul, that passionate feeling. Another friend has got his love but now it seems it’s hard

To survive and he is trying his best not to lose it.

And as far as I am concerned, the guy whom I love knows that but still unknown because..... let it be.

Though am still happy because of the same feelings, I am not fighting with it rather made it my best friend with whom

I share my happiness, my anger, my loneliness everything.  Still with all the complaints and anger around us, we still have faith on love as is used to be. You believe in love or not are purely your personal issue so no arguments but one thing I can guarantee that reading those true legendary love stories, those love will bind you magically and if not for somebody else but you feel love for yourself and cheer you up. Let’s live in this love now am sharing:

1. The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding-

Riding- riding-

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

2. He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doeskin:

They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!

And he rode hilt a-twinkle.

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

3. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.

He whistled a tune to the window; and who should be waiting there

Bess landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

4. And dark old inn-yard a stable wicket creaked

Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked,

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay;

But he loved the landlord’s daughter,

The landlord’s red-lipped daughter:

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard as the robber say-

5. “One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize tonight,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.

Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way.”

6. He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand;

But he loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight)

Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

7. He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,

When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping to the purple moon,

A red coat troop came marching-

Marching- marching-

King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

8. They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,

But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed

Two of them knelt her at casement, with muskets at the side!

There was death at every window,

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

9. They had tied her up to attention, with sniggering jest

They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

“Now keep good watch!” and they kissed her

She heard the dead man say-

Look for me by moonlight;

Watch for me by moonlight;

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way!

10. She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!

           She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years;

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight.

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

11. The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for rest!

Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again,

For the road lay bare in the moonlight,

Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her Love’s refrain.

12. Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear-

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

The highway man came riding,

Riding- riding!’

The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still!

13. Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence1 Tlot-tlot in the echoing night1

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her DEATH.

14. He turned; he spurred him westward; he did not know who stood

Bowed with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!

Not till the dawn he heard it and slowly blanched to hear

How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her Love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

15. Back, he spurred like a madman shrieking a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat,

When they shot him down on the highway,

Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

 

16. And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A HIGHWAY MAN COMES RIDING-

Ridding-     riding-

A HIGHWAY MAN COMES RIDING, UP TO THE OLD INN-DOOR.

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

BESS, the landlord’s daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love knot onto her long  hair.