love poems for her

Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen

A young man loves a maiden
Whose heart for another has yearned;
This other loves another
By whom his love is returned.

The maiden weds in anger
The first good man she spies
Who runs into her pathway;
The youth grows bitter and wise.

It is an old, old story
But one that's always new;
And every time it happens

Und als ich so lange, so lange gesäumt

And thus, as I wasted so many a day
In wandering and dreaming the hours away,
My love found the waiting too long a recess,
So she started to sew on her wedding-dress;
And she caught in her arms (oh deluded and duped)
As husband, the stupidest one of the stupid.

My loved one is so mild and fair
Her likeness haunts me everywhere;
The rose-cheeks and the violet-eyes
Year in, year out, their ghosts arise.
And that I should lose a love so dear,

Wie die Wellenschaumgeborene

Like the Foam-born, my love glows in
Splendor and her beauty's pride,
For she is the happy chosen
One to be a stranger's bride.

Tho' this treason may be hard on
Thee, my heart, thou patient one;
Bear it without sighs, and pardon
What the pretty fool has done.

Liebste, sollst mir heute sagen:

Come, and you shall tell me, dearest,
 Are you not a thing of dreams,
Such as, when the Summer's clearest,
 From the poet's fancy streams?

Ah, but no—a mien so mild, dear,
 Such a mouth and eyes that wait;
Such a loving, lovely child, dear,
 Not a poet could create.

Basilisks whose glances freeze or
 Hippogriffs and dragons dire;
Horrid, fabled things like these are
 Fashioned in the poet's fire.

But yourself and your pretenses,

Es stehen unbeweglich

Immovable for ages
The stars are set above;
They look upon each other
With all the pain of Love.

And oh, they speak a language,
So wondrous, each to each,
That not the wisest scholar
Can understand their speech.

But I have learned it, and never
Can I hear it again unmoved;
For lo, I used as a grammar
The face of my beloved!

Ich wollte, meine Lieder

I wish that all my love-songs
Were flowers bright and rare;
I'd send them to my dearest
And she might find them fair.

I wish that all my love-songs
Were kisses that could speak;
I'd send them to my dearest
To hang about her cheek.

I wish that these, my love-songs,
Were peas, so firm and fat;
I'd make a nice, rich pea-soup —

Love grasps my heart in a net
Like the strong roots of a flower;
So surely his root is set
In my spirit, to hold me with power
Yet to-night, O forgive me, Dear!
I am troubled, my heart trembles.
There flutters within me a fear
That Love in vain dissembles.

O is it that even our trust,
So strongly planted,
How steadfast soever, must
By its own fear be haunted?
As the heart must beat in the breast
If the pulse to its life be true,
Love must tremble and throb in his nest

There is clay, lime, silicon, salt
for the rationalist
and something
with a strange atomic weight.

Let Prospero whose I
is on a dandelion seed
give it a name
to disappear into
as softly
as a spider hurls a thread
and make it impervious
to theory
for although he is fanciful,
he loves
salt and iron,
and absolutes make him belch.

o for a world with a string and a kitten
and Tipsy who loves us so much
he pees
and you and I.

Think of reason,
Love 's a poison
Tender hearts should fear to touch. Mist .

From this poison
There 's no reason,
I conceive, to fear so much. P HIL .

Dreadful poison!
Beauteous reason! Mist .

Horrid reason!
Charming poison! P HIL .

Farewell, poison;
'Tis to reason
I direct my placid view: Mist .

Nonsense, reason!
'Tis the poison,
Sir, I must expect of you.