love poems for her

A Virgin, Wife , and Widow three that One
Held rarely perfect in like Vnion ,
Incites my Muse: nay, more, doth her constrain
To empt my Pen of Praise , of Wit my Braine
In her deserued honor: she whose all
Was nought but good ; yet so, as we may call
That good but nought (and iustly) if the same
Giue not her goodnesse glory more than fame!
A Maide , in whom Virginitie gaue place
(Though most exact) to Modestie and Grace .
A Wife (who like old Josephs blessed Bride )

To my most louing and highly valued friend, Mr Nathaniell Tomphins

T O pay you (deere Nathaniell) with that gold
I once receauèd of you, is but right;
Yours gaue mee glory; then your debter should.
Giue you the same, with wearing made more bright:
 But (ah) I cannot, sith you still refine.
 Your worthes, which at the worst, farre passèd mine.

Most noble lord, that truest worthinesse
Which in thy nature and thy carriage shines,
Doth presse me now to make them passe the Presse
Led thereto by these too-slacke twisted lines
Thou art a subiect worthy of the Muse
When most she raignes in height of happinesse;
Into whose noble spright the heauens infuse
All guifts and graces gracing noblenesse.
In few, there are so many parts in thee
(All wholy noble) as thus fixt shall bee
On Fames wings when she past herselfe doth flee.

Whate'er you say, whate'er you do,
My heart shall still be fixed and true.
The vicious bosom love deforms
And rages there in gusts and storms,
But love with us a constant gale,
Just swells the sea and fills the sail:
Neither of winds or waves the sport,
We rule the helm and gain the port.

While before St. Agnes' shrine
Knelt a true knight's lady-love,
From the wars of Palestine
Came a gentle carrier-dove.
Round his neck a silken string
Fastened words the warrior writ:
At her call he stooped his wing,
And upon her finger lit.

She, like one enchanted, pored
O'er the contents of the scroll —
For that lady loved her lord
With a pure, devoted soul.
To her heart her dove she drew,
While she traced the burning line;
Then away his minion flew
Back to sainted Palestine.

The truest is the simplest. Why entail
Whole days of years to some complex pursuit,
To probe life's flower and analyze its fruit?
O weary student, perplexed, spectre-pale,
Why beat against the granite of thy gaol,
Self-built; or kill the flower to search the root?
Doth lore make mankind any less the brute?
Or knowledge alone for godlike flight avail?

'Tis love draws all from earth to heaven's heights.
Not all thy weary lore of sleepless nights
Hath power to touch like one low daisied sod; —

I STOOD last night on Dante's bridge of woe,
And saw that awful host of those who pass,
Like phantom shadows on a wizard's glass,
In all dread miseries of the stygian throe.
I saw the fated lovers come and go
In agony of love's despair, alas,
Ixion's wheel; and Sisyphus' taunting glass
Escape his lips amid the hellish glow.

But nowhere saw I ill so great as here
Goes grinding sadly, patient day by day,
Jealousy, hate, yon miser aged and grey
Gripping his gold with mocking death anear;

Love thee, dearest? — Hear me. — Never
Will my fond vows be forgot!
May I perish, and for ever,
When, dear maid, I love thee not!
Turn not from me, dearest! — Listen!
Banish all thy doubts and fears!
Let thine eyes with transport glisten!
What hast thou to do with tears?

Dry them, dearest! — Ah, believe me,
Love's bright flame is burning still!
Though the hollow world deceive thee,
Here's a heart that never will!
Dost thou smile? — A cloud of sorrow
Breaks before Joy's rising sun!

Love and be loved! yet know love's holiest deeps
Few sound while living! when the loved one sleeps
That last, strange sleep beneath the mournful sod,
Then Memory wakes, like some remorseful god,
And all the golden past, we scarce did prize,
Subtly revives, with light of tender eyes,
That smiled their soft forgiveness on our wrongs, —
And old thoughts rise, with echoes of sweet songs, —
Soul-nightingales, in pensive twilight born,
To press their throbbing breasts against the thorn
Of sharp regret! till love so blends with pain,

We met — he was a stranger,
His foot was free to roam;
I was a simple maiden,
Who had never left my home.

He was a noble scion
Of the green Highland pine,
To a strange soil transplanted,
Far from his native clime.

And well his bearing pleased me,
For I had never seen
Keener eye, or smile more sunlit,
Or more dignity of mien.

His brow was fair and lofty,
Bright was his clustering hair;
I marvelled that to other eyes
He seemed not half so fair.