love poems for her

This torment of love
that is in my heart,
I know I feel it
and know not why.

I feel the keen pangs
of a frenzy desired
whose beginning is longing
and end melancholy.

And when I my sorrow
more softly bewail,
I know I am sad
and know not why.

I feel for the juncture
I crave a fierce panting,
and when I come nigh it
withhold mine own hand.

For if haply it offers
after much weary vigil,
mistrust spoils its savour
and terror dispels it.
...

Sure of successe, to you I boldly write,
Whilst Love, does every tender line endite.
Love, who is justly President of verse,
Which all his servants write, or else rehearse.
Phaebus, how'ere mistaken Poets dream,
N'er us'd a Verse, 'till Love became his theam,
To his stray'd Son, still as his passion rose
He rais'd his hasty voyce, in clamerous prose,
But when in Daphne , he wou'd Love inspire,
He woo'd in verse, sett to his silver lyre,
In moving Verse, that did her heart assail,
And cou'd on all, but Chastity prevail.

This is the gospel of labour, ring it, ye bells of the kirk!
The Lord of Love came down from above, to live with the men who work.
This is the rose that He planted, here in the thorn-curst soil:
Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of Earth is toil.

THE DAYS OF OUR YOUTH

These are the days of our youth, our days of glory and honour.
 Pleasure begotten of strength is ours, the sword in our hand.
Wisdom bends to our will, we lead captivity captive,
 Kings of our lives and love, receiving gifts from men.

Why do I speak of wisdom? The prize is not for the wisest.
 Reason, the dull ox, ploughs a soil which no joy shall reap.
Folly is fleeter far 'neath the heel of the fearless rider,
 Folly the bare-backed steed we bestride, the steed of the plains.

Is it to love to muse the live long day
On one dear object tho he's far away
And when the shadows usher in the night
His form in dreams to swim before the sight
Is it to love — when in the social train
He mixes not the mirth and song are vain
Nor wit nor sentiment nor attic ease
When he is absent have the power to please
Is it to love to feel the vital tide
Mount to the cheek and then in haste subside
The pulse to tremble and the heart to melt
Then sink away as if they never felt
All this and more a thousand times I prove

T HIRSIS a youth of the inspired train,
Faire Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phaebus sung, the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne , she as lovely and as coy;
With numbers, he the flying Nymph pursues,
With numbers, such as Phaebus selfe might use;
Such is the chase, when love and fancy leads
O'er craggy mountains, and through flowry meads,
Invok'd to testifie the lovers care,
Or forme some image of his cruell Faire:
Urg'd with his fury like a wounded Deer

Think not my Phebe , cause a cloud
Doth now thy heavenly beauty shroud,
My wandring eye
Can stoop to common beauties of the sky,
Be thou but kind, and this Eclipse
Shall neither hinder eyes, nor lips;
For we will meet

Thine elder that I am, thou must not cling
To me, nor mournful for my love entreat:
And yet, Alcaeus, as the sudden spring
Is love, yea, and to veiled Demeter sweet.

Sweeter than tone of harp, more gold than gold
Is thy young voice to me; yet, ah, the pain
To learn I am beloved now I am old,
Who, in my youth, loved, as thou must, in vain.

Thick and stormy was the night,
— Not a single star,
When I climbed to my delight,
— Where the roses are;

Where the roses are and love,
— In a bower warm,
Climbing up to heaven above
— Night and wind and storm.

They tell me that I must not love,
That thou wilt spurn the free
And unbought tenderness that gives
Its hidden wealth to thee.
It may be so: I heed it not,
Nor would I change my blissful lot,
When thus I am allowed to make
My heart a bankrupt for thy sake.

They tell me when the fleeting charm
Of novelty is o'er,
Thou 'lt turn away with careless brow
And think of me no more.
It may be so! enough for me
If sunny skies still smile o'er thee,
Or I can trace, when thou art far,