love poems for her

I have plenty of song masters
And song mistresses around me:
Meadows and orchards, trees and flowers,
Birds songs and lays and cries
For the sweet, gentle season,
And so I settle with a little enjoyment,
Such that no diversion can gladden me
As does the company of worthy love.

Let the shepherds have their pipes,
And the children their little games,
And let such loves be mine
In which I may enjoy and be enjoyed;
For I know her to be wholly good
To her lover in a forbidding place:

Since our season begins to grow dark,
And the branches are bare of their leaves,
And I see the sun's rays so low
That the days are dark and shadowy,
And from the birds one hears no songs or lays,
For joy of love we should be glad.

One cannot serve this love so much
That its reward will not redouble a thousand times;
For distinction and joy and everything, and more,
Those who are capable of it shall have;
For it never went back on promises or broke them —
But it seems it will be difficult to conquer.

With the season which renews
The world, and makes the meadows green again,
I wish to begin a new song
About a love which I desire;
But she is so distant from me
That I cannot reach her,
Nor does she take pleasure in my words.

Nothing can ever comfort me;
Rather, let me die
When they have separated me from my lady —
Slanderers, God hate them!
Alas! I will have desired her so much,
That for her I lament, weep, and sigh,
And I act as if I were out of my mind.

She whom you hear me sing about

I TELL a tale o' burnin' love,
A love they seldom tine
Wha ance ha'e nursed it in their hearts:
It's no a love divine;
It's no a tale o' human love,
Whaur ane may lo'e anither;
It's no a mither's for a bairn,
A sister's for her brither:

Nae love o' science or o' art,
Or nature's bonny face;
It's no a love o' warl's gear,
Nor a love o' power and place;
It's no a love o' ocht that's gude,
Or ocht that's fine or fair;
It's no a love o' priest or kirk—
It's unco seldom there.

We gathered round the festive board,
The crackling faggot blazed,
But few would taste the wine that poured.
Or join the song we raised.
For there was now a glass unfilled —
A favored place to spare;
All eyes were dull, all hearts were chilled —
The loved one was not there.

No happy laugh was heard to ring,
No form would lead the dance;
A smothered sorrow seemed to fling
A gloom in every glance.
The grave had closed upon a brow,
The honest, bright, and fair;

Dear Kate, I do not swear and rave,
Or sigh sweet things as many can;
But though my lip ne'er plays the slave
My heart will not disgrace the man .
I prize thee — ay, my bonnie Kate,
So firmly fond this breast can be,
That I would brook the sternest fate
If it but left me health and thee.

I do not promise that our life
Shall know no shade on heart or brow;
For human lot and mortal strife

Dear child! a faithful mother's love
For thee will toil, and watch, and pray;
An angel hovering still above
Thy couch by night, thy steps by day.

Oh, think how oft thy lips have pressed
Her breast! how oft thine arms have clung
Around her neck, while to her heart
She clasped thee close, and sweetly sung!

When fever's burning flush suffused
Thy cheek, and heaved thy panting chest,
Thou rest or refuge all refused
Save mother's arms and mother's breast.

And she would sit with tangled hair,

Thou bid'st me take the axe, and rudely smite
Yon belt of trees that bounds thy searching eyes.
Thou hast a stranger's heart, an alien's sight,
For all those dear home objects which I prize;
I love the rooks, that drop the wearied wing
At eve so fondly on their native grove,
And to mine ear and eyesight daily bring
So many sounds and motions that I love;
And in that path beneath, ere day is done,
How oft I pace beside the setting sun;
How oft I watch the nightly orb arise
On the dark trees, my garden guest to be.

To the e , Echo, and thou to me agane
In the deserts among the wods and wells
Whair destinie hes bund thee to remane
But company within the firths and fells,
Let us complene, with wofull youts and yells
On shaft and shooter that our hairts hes slane:
To the e , Echo, and thou to me agane. . . .

Som thing, Echo, thou hes for to rejose
Suppose Narcissus somtyme the e forsook.
First he is dead syne changed in a Rose,
Whom thou nor nane hes pouer for to brook.
Bot be the contrair everie day I look

I rather far be fast nor frie
Albeit I micht my mynd remove;
My maistres hes a man of me
That lothis of every thing bot love.
What can a man desyre?
What can a man requyre?
Bot tym sall caus him tyre
And let it be, —
Except that fervent fyre
Of burning love impyre:
Hope heghts me sik a hyre
I rather far be fast nor frie.

But love — what wer bot sturt or stryfe?
But love — what kyndnes culd indure?
But love — hou lothsum war our lyfe!
But love — whar of suld we be sure?