love poems for her

Through love to light! Oh wonderful the way
That leads from darkness to the perfect day!
From darkness and from sorrow of the night
To morning that comes singing o'er the sea.
Through love to light! Through light, O God, to thee,
Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light!

Thro bushes & briars when I took my way
Down by a chrystal riverside one morning in May
I hear[d] a pretty damsel her voice was so clear
Long time have I been waiting for the coming of my dear

I drew somthing near to a tree that was green
Where the leaves they so shaded me I scarce could be seen
& there I sat & nothing said till my poor heart did move
Long time Id this opinion of poor distressed love

Some says I lost my senses & crazily inclined
But first I go unto my love & tell to her my mind

Thou wert the morning star among the living
Ere thy fair light had fled;--
Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving
New splendour to the dead.
Language has not the power to speak what love indites;
The Soul lies buried in the ink that writes.

WITH A COPY OF " MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN. "

This is the golden book spirit and sense,
The holy writ of beauty; he that wrought
Made it with dreams and faultless words and thought
That seeks and finds and loses in the dense
Dim air of life that beauty's excellence
Wherewith love makes one hour of life distraught,
And all hours after follow and find not aught.
Here is that height of all love's eminence

I ask not what the bud may be,
That hangs upon the green-sheathed stem;
But love with every leaf I see,
To lie unfolded there like them.

I ask not what the tree may bear,
When whitened by the hand of spring;
But with its blossoms on the air,
Would far around my perfume fling.

The infant's joy is mine, is mine,
I join its infant sports with glee;
And would not for a world resign,
The look of love it casts on me.

Leave not the bird upon the wing,
But with her seek her shaded nest,

Though I'm thinking of you ceaselessly,
I can't somehow remember your face.
I come to myself, and realize I'm humming over and over again
a tune of some music that caught my ear.
Though I think I'd like to see you
it's not so much a passion as a curiosity:
I'd like to make certain of what's what with myself,
in front of you, once again.
What comes after doesn't come to my mind.
I can't imagine holding you either.
Only, the world other than you is quite wearying,
and like an actor in a movie filmed at high speed

Those men who love the crwth and harp,
Cynghanedd, song, the englyn's art,
They love the best things God has given
To please his angel-hosts in heaven.

Those charming eyes within whose starry sphere
Love whilom sat, and smiled the hours away, —
Those braids of light, that shamed the beams of day, —
That hand benignant, and that heart sincere, —
Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear
Like snow-banks scattered with the blooms of May,
Turned to a little cold and worthless clay,
Are gone, forever gone, and perished here, —

But not unbathed by Memory's warmest tear!
Death thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour,
That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a flower,

Tho I die on a distant strand,
And they give me a grave in that land,
Yet carry me back to my own city!
Carry me back to her grace and pity!
For I think I could not rest
Afar from her mighty breast.
She is fairer than others are
Whom they sing the beauty of.
Her heart is a song and a star —
My cool, grey city of love.

Tho they tear the rose from her brow,
To her is ever my vow;
Ever to her I give my duty —
First in rapture and first in beauty,
Wayward, passionate, brave,

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOËNS

This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou 'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.

Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid;
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?

Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,