love poems for her

OH ! If my Mind
Should be inclin'd,
This would Increase my Fear:
Lord, from above,
Thou God of Love,
Reveal thy Counsel near;
That I may know,
That I may do
Thy Ever-Blessed Will:
Ah, thine alone,
And not mine own,
Great King! Do thou fulfil.

Two hands are we to serve thee, O our Mother,
To strive and succour, cherish and unite;
Two feet are we to cleave the waning darkness,
And gain the pathways of the dawning light.

Two years are we to catch the nearing echo,
The sounding cheer of Time's prophetic horn;
Two eyes are we to reap the crescent glory,
The radiant promise of renascent morn.

One heart are we to love thee, O our Mother,
One undivided, indivisible soul,
Bound by one hope, one purpose, one devotion
Towards a great, divinely-destined goal.

O Love! do you know the spring is here
With the lure of her magic flute? ...
The old earth breaks into passionate bloom
At the kiss of her fleet, gay foot.
The burgeoning leaves on the almond boughs,
And the leaves on the blue wave's breast
Are crowned with the limpid and delicate light
Of the gems in your turban-crest.
The bright pomegranate buds unfold,
The frail wild lilies appear,
Like the blood-red jewels you used to fling
O'er the maidens that danced at the feast of spring
To welcome the new-born year.

O Love! were you a basil-wreath to twine among my tresses,
A jewelled clasp of shining gold to bind around my sleeve,
O Love! were you the keora's soul that haunts my silken raiment,
A bright, vermilion tassel in the girdles that I weave;

O Love! were you the scented fan that lies upon my pillow,
A sandal lute, or silver lamp that burns before my shrine,
Why should I fear the jealous dawn that spreads with cruel laughter,
Sad veils of separation between your face and mine?

Haste, O wild-bee hours, to the gardens of the sunset!

He

Lift up the veils that darken the delicate moon of thy glory and grace,
Withhold not, O Love, from the night of my longing the joy of thy luminous face,
Give me a spear of the scented keora guarding thy pinioned curls,
Or a silken thread from the fringes that trouble the dream of thy glimmering pearls;
Faint grows my soul with thy tresses' perfume and the song of thy anklet's caprice,
Revive me, I pray, with the magical nectar that dwells in the flower of thy kiss.

She

Ho! Flesh and Blood! sweet Flesh and Blood
As ever strode on earth!
Welcome to Water and to Wood —
To all a Madman's mirth.
This tree is mine, this leafless tree
That's writhen o'er the linn;
The stream is mine that fitfully
Pours forth its sullen din.
Their lord am I; and still my dream
Is of this Tree — is of that Stream.

The Tree, the Stream — a deadly Twain!
They will not live apart;
The one rolls thundering through my brain,
The other smites my heart:
Ay, this same leafless fire-scathed tree,

A female friend advis'd a swain
Whose heart she wish'd at ease,
" Make love thy pleasure, not thy pain,
Nor let it deeply seize.

Beauty, where vanities abound,
No serious passion claims:
Then, till a phaenix can be found,
Do not admit the flames."

But griev'd, she finds all his replies
(Since prepossess'd when young)
Take all their hints from Silvia's eyes,
None from Ardelia's tongue.

Thus, Cupid, all their aim they miss,
Who would unbend thy bow;
And each slight nymph a phaenix is,

Reader! since God expects thee, too,
Be, like our brother, kind and true;
Then, will three words thy worth express,
Honesty, Love, and Usefulness.

O voice divine, whose heavenly strain
No mortal measure may attain,
O powerful to appease the smart,
That festers in a wounded heart,
Whose mystic numbers can assuage
The bosom of tumultuous Rage,
Can strike the dagger from Despair,
And shut the watchful eye of Care.
Oft lur'd by thee, when wretches call,
Hope comes, that cheers or softens all;
Expell'd by thee and dispossest,
Envy forsakes the human breast.
Full oft with thee the bard retires,
And lost to earth, to Heav'n aspires;

Water from straws or wisps
is no love charm for thee;
'tis drawing to thee ardently
the love of him that pleaseth thee.

On Sunday rise thou early
to a level, broad flagstone;
and take with thee specimens
of butter-bur and monkshood;
lift those on thy shoulder
in a wooden shovel.

Get nine stalks of bracken,
cut down with an axe,
and three bones of an old man,
extracted from a grave;
burn it on a faggot fire,
and reduce the whole to ash.

Rub this on his white breast,