love poems for her

I NEVER know why 't is I love thee so:
I do not think 't is that thine eyes for me
Grow bright as sudden sunshine on the sea;
Nor for thy rose-leaf lips, or breast of snow,
Or voice like quiet waters where they flow.

So why I love thee well I cannot tell:
Only it is that when thou speak'st to me
'T is thy voice speaks, and when thy face I see
It is thy face I see; and it befell
Thou wert, and I was, and I love thee well.

Among the trees, O God,
Is there not one
That with unrivalled love
Thou look'st upon?

And of all blessed birds,
Hath not thy Love
Found for its fittest mate
The homing dove?

Or, mid the flame of flowers
That light the land,
Doth not the lily first
Before thee stand?

So says my soul, O God,
The type of thee.
" In each life-circle, one
Was made for me. "

Yea; a bubble though I be,
Love, O man, that fashioned thee
Of the dust, created me
Not of earth, but of the sea:
Kindred blossoms then are we —
Time-blooms on eternity.

Because we are shut out from light,
Each of the other's look and smile;
Because the arms' and lips' delight
Are past and dead, a weary while;

Because the dawn, that joy has brought,
Brings now but certainty of pain,
Nothing for you and me has bought
The right to live our lives in vain.

Take not away the only lure
That leads me on my lonely way,
To know you noble, sweet, and pure,
Great in least service, day by day.

Love is a day, Sweetheart, shining and bright:
It hath its rose-dawn ere the morning light;
Its glow and glory of the sudden sun;
Its noon-tide heat as the swift hours wear on;
Its fall of dew, and silver-lighted night, —
Love is a day. Sweetheart, shining and bright.

Love is a year, Beloved, bitter and brief:
It hath its spring of bud, and bloom and leaf;
Its summer burning from the fervid South
Till all the fields lie parched and faint with drouth;
Its autumn, when the leaves sweep down the gale,

In the South is Love's land,
Where the roses blow,
Where the Summer lingers
Fearless of the snow.
There no Winter chills it,
So its life is long, —
Gentle breezes fan it,
Age but makes it strong.

" Nay, fresh roses wither
Where the sun is hot, —
Not in torrid regions
Blooms Forget-me-not.
Love's a tender blossom
Which the Winter chills,
But the eager Summer
Kisses it, and kills. "

In thy long, lonely times, poor aching heart!
When days are slow, and silent nights are sad,
Take cheer, weak heart, remember and be glad,
For some one loved thee.

Some one, indeed, who cared for fading face,
For time-touched hair, and weary-falling arm,
And in thy very sadness found a charm
To make him love thee.

God knows thy days are desolate, poor heart!
As thou dost sit alone, and dumbly wait
For what comes not, or comes, alas! too late,
But some one loved thee.

They told me of her history — her love
Was a neglected flame, which had consumed
The vase wherein it kindled. O how fraught
With bitterness is unrequited love!
To know that we have cast life's hope away
On a vain shadow!
Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep,
As a woman's love should be,
All tenderness and silence, only known
By the soft meaning of a downcast eye,
Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts;
A sigh, scarce heard; a blush, scarce visible,
Alone may give it utterance. — Love is

Dear Heart! if aught to human love I've owed
For noble furtherance of the good and fair;
Climbed I, by bold emprise, the dizzying stair
To excellence, and was by thee approved,
In memory cherished and the more beloved;
If fortune smiled, and late-won liberty, —
'T was thy kind favor all, thy generous legacy.
Nor didst thou spare thy large munificence
Me here to pleasure amply and maintain,
But conjured from suspicion and mischance,
Exile, misapprehension, cold disdain,
For my loved cloud-rapt dream, supremacy;

The morning's clear, the sky without a frown,
The dew-bespangled pastures wet the shoe;
Sauntering full early toward the sleeping town,
We'll take the dry, well-trodden avenue;
On these crisp pathways, and familiar grounds
(Unless my flattering heart be over-bold),
While lingering purposely amid our rounds,
Some shady lane may love to hear all told.
One name has captured his too partial ear,—
(These kind, concealing bushes love invite
No tell-tales are, nor neighbors impolite;)
I'll hear his suit devoid of blame or fear.