love poems for her

A lecture to be mild in love

Whilst that in bleating flocks of snow
The Dounes are clad the meads below
With various heards all covered be
When from the yoak their necks are free.

And all the fields by Ceres blest
Are turnd to ears that never rest
Each naked wood anew receives
A fresh light canopy of leavs.

Under whose secret brainches quires
Of winged singers stirr up fires
Of action whilst the purling spring
Quenches not, but adds fuelling.

The kisses wanton Zephirs threw

We marched out of Gloucester the 19th of June ,
Colours being flying, and soldiers in full bloom;
Little did I think that my true love was so near,
My heart was stole away by Captain Barnard's Grenadier .

My father and my mother confin'd me in a room,
I jump'd out of the window, and I went into the town;
It was my good fortune to meet with my dearest dear,
My heart was stole away by Captain Barnard's Grenadier .

My love goes to the Captain, so valiant and so bold,
He is clothed all in scarlet, and laced round with gold;

Three lilies grew in a garden
That looked upon the sea;
These lilies white, they had a right
To be beloved of me.
I ask no man a pardon
That, all within my garden,
I loved those lilies three.

Three men came in my garden,
Three men from o'er the sea;
One black as night, one gold-bedight,
And one that looked at me,
And praised my growing garden:
I ask my God for pardon,
I loved him of the three.

Strange things come out of the sea:
I loved him well, ah me!

Lovely wings of gold and green
Flit about the sounds I hear.
On my window when I lean
To the shadows cool and clear.
. . . . .

Roaming, I am listening still,
Bending, listening overlong,
In my soul a steadier will,
In my heart a newer song.

OM ONA ! I love thee, thou land of my birth!
Tho' long I have roam'd the world's wilderness o'er,
No spot have I found on the fair face of earth
Half so dear as thy own rocky, sea-beaten shore.

Tho' the world hath not rung with the deeds of thy fame,
Nor history's tablets thy glories have borne,
Yet gems of bright genius, unknown as thy name,
And flowers of fair virtue thy valleys adorn;

Where Truth and pure Piety, join'd hand in hand —
Sweet cherubic sisters, — have made their abode,

A LONG the road in the month of June,
With all the roses in their prime.
The laurel blooms and hears the tune
Of all the birds, for it is their time
Of fullest, fairest singing.

And no man meets awake, a-dream,
A daintier pink on lady's cheek
Than paints those clustered cups that seem
Like nuns demure and over-meek,
So close together clinging.

Some flowers are for city walks,
And some to love's light lattice climb;
And some are noisome on their stalks,
While others scent the summertime

There is many a simple song one hears,
To an outworn tune, that starts the tears;
Not for itself—for the buried years.

Perchance 'twas heard in the days of youth,
When breath was buoyant and words were truth;
When joys were peddled at Life's gay booth.

Or maybe it sounded along a lane
Where She walked with you—and now again
You catch Love's cadence, Love's old sweet pain.

Or else it stole through a room where lay
A dear one dying, and seemed to say:
“Love and death, they shall pass away.”

'T IS past! the tuneless lethargy is o'er!
I fly from Dulness, and her mole-ey'd throng;
To Fancy, and to Love, I wake once more,
Once more, I wake to Rapture, and to Song;

Whence spring these transports of tumultuous bliss?
These sweet sensations whence, to Feeling true? —
They breathe, ambrosial, from my M ARY 's kiss;
They stream from her soft eyes of humid blue;

Dear maid! how oft, immerst in cheerless woe,
Close have I clasp'd thy visionary form;
How oft, has that ripe cheek's purpureal glow,

Since , first, soft Passion could this breast enflame,
Oh! Love ! I've own'd the rigor of thy rule;
Still to thy shrine, with bleeding heart, I came,
And Prudence pointed oft the am'rous fool;

'Tis past: — and ah! tho', with thy pow'r, are flown
Innum'rous pangs, that wrung my tortur'd soul,
Joy, too, is fled, sweet raptures all thy own,
That gild the chains of such severe controul.

Where, now, the fond concern? the blissful dream?
The glad surprize, that purpled o'er my cheek?

Tell me not, of joys in love,
I, who all its changes prove,
I, who all its load sustain,
Swear, by Jove,
The bliss is poison'd by the pain.
What tho' panting in your arms,
The virgin yield her blushing charms;
What tho' from her swimming eye,
Heavens raptures fly,
And magic heat each vein alarms;
What tho' from the soft embrace,
Sparks electric, fire the soul,
Mount from the bosom, to the face,
And as they roll,
All thoughts of mortal care efface;
Yet tell me not, of joys in love,