love poems for her

'T IS not Love that is dead,
But Hope, his sister fair.
They breathed the self-same air,
On the same food they fed.
The soul of Love with awful strength was filled
By Passion — but his sister, Hope, was killed.

Plant not the lily here!
No lily lies below.
The crimson rose to her was dear,
And the summer of the year,
Not the snow.

— Sing no lament!
She loved a merry song.
For her the birds were sent.
To her the humming of the golden bees,
And the murmur of trees

Find me, O my true love, find me,
— All the words by love made strongest,
— All the words that last the longest,
For an oath, an oath to bind me!

In the East the dawn grows brighter,
— On the wind I hear a whistle.
— Light the down upon the thistle.
Yea, true love, but I am lighter!

Love , the immortal thing, by Time constrained
— Is as a spirit by some devil bound,
— His voice an unintelligible sound,
His aspect harsh despair and beauty feigned.

Closely I watched it, hour by hour,
— I almost thought I saw it grow,
When first the bud became a flower,
— — I do not know.

Closely I watched thee, O my dove,
— I almost thought I knew thee well.
When liking blossomed into love,
— — I cannot tell.

I CANNOT love you well, love,
— I cannot love again.
Your heaven is my hell, love,
— Your rapture is my pain.

I cannot say once more, love,
— The words that have been said.
My hand is on the door, love,
— My heart is with the dead.

When you would bid me stay, love,
— A voice is in mine ear,
That cries, " Away, away, love!
— How shouldst thou linger here? "

You warmed me at your fire, love,
— But I myself am cold.
God grant you your desire, love,
— And new love for the old.

Before Thine Altar on my bended knees,
When I remember those Thy friends that lie
Helpless and hopeless, sunk in misery,
O Christ, I love Thee, but I love not these.

Without them I may never hope to please
That friend of theirs who had no word to say
When from his side the rich man turned away.
O Christ, Thou lov'st not me. Thou lovest these!

Why is she set so far, so far above me,
— And yet not altogether raised above?
I would give all the world that she should love me,
— My soul that she should never learn to love.

No nearer to thy presence let me stand!
Fate set me in a strange and distant land!
There let my life ruNout its tranquil course,
Unchecked, as now, with every painful breath,
To feel between us a dividing force
More strong than Death!

And say not thou, “This is Love's waning hour.”
By Love's own God, I never felt his power,
The all-commanding terror of his bliss,
Never in passion's noontide loved thee more.
When I compare my former state with this,
I never loved before.

Where, thro' the starry curtains of the night,
— Soft whisp'ring breezes wake the ruddy morn,
Whose sparkling eye darts forth returning light,
— Whose golden brows refulgent beams adorn:

Where gaudy blossoms o'er the tufted vale,
Fling their soft breathings on the spicy gale,
From the lorn Nightingale on yonder spray,
In melting murmurs steals the love-fraught lay;

Stranger to joy and hopeless of relief,
— At morn's proud glow — and twilight's pensive hour,
— Her widow'd breast its plaintive song shall pour,