love poem

"It was a face one loved to gaze upon,
For calm serenity of thought was there.
The eyes were soft and gentle in their glance,
And looked with trusting artlessness in yours.
Placid her mien, like that of lofty souls
That after storm sink down in tranquil rest."

"It is an era strange, yet sweet,
Which every woman's heart hath known,
When first her bosom learns to beat
To the soft music of a tone;
That era, when she first begins
To know what love alone can teach,
That there are hidden depths within
Which friendship never yet could reach."

"They loved;--and were beloved. O happiness.
I have said all that can be said of bliss
In saying that they loved. The young heart has
Such store of wealth in its own fresh, wild pulse,
And it is love that works the mind, and brings
Its treasure to the light. I did love once,
Loved as youth, woman, genius loves; though now
My heart is chilled and seared, and taught to wear
The falsest of false things--a mask of smiles;
Yet every pulse throbs at the memory
Of that which has been."

"Love thee! words have no meaning to my deep love;
It hath purged me from the weakness of my sex,
And made me new create in thee. Love thee!
I had not lived until I knew thee."

"Come over the mountains to me, love,
Over to me--over to me;
My spirit is pining for thee, love,
Pining for thee--pining for thee!"

"And when in other climes we meet,
Some isle or vale enchanting,
And all looks flowery, wild and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting,
We think how blest had been our fate,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die 'mid scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us."

"He held a letter in his withered hand
Which brought good tidings of the absent one.
O, what soul-cheering things are letters, when
They come fresh from the hand of one we love,
All brimming o'er with kindly-uttered words!"

"A mien that neither seeks nor shuns
The homage scattered in her way;
A love that hath few favored ones,
And yet for all can work and pray.
A smile wherein each mortal reads
The very sympathy he needs;
An eye like to a mystic book,
Of lays that bard or prophet sings,
Which keepeth for the holiest look
Of holiest love, its deepest things."

"She was a lovely little ladye,
With blue eyes beaming sunnily;
And loved to carry charity
To the abodes of misery."

Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves,
Forsake the giddy glitt'ring throng,
With him to dwell in peaceful groves,
With him to hear the shepherd's song?

Can'st thou, without a sigh, resign
The homage by thy charms inspir'd?
To one, oh! say, can'st thou confine
What oft so many have admir'd?

Sweet maid! oh! bless'd shall be our love,
Till time shall bid it cease to flow;
With thee shall ev'ry moment prove
A little heaven form'd below!