love poems for her

They may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine —
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelier —
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover

They cannot wholly pass away,
How far soe'er above;
Nor we, the lingerers, wholly stay
Apart from those we love:
For spirits in eternity,
As shadows in the sun,
Reach backward into Time, as we,
Like lifted clouds, reach on.

They are so moving in
their sadness, gentleness and longing —
all the sad old men who once
were all the sad young men.

How can you not be moved
by their loneliness and desolation —
their faint dreams and hopes
of love, a new love, a friendship?

The poorest and the ugliest still long
for just a passing warmth, a touch,
the clasp of hands, the feel, the joy
of another's nakedness and strength and grace
enriching all that poverty and emptiness and death.

Friendship is only for the young.

These lovely groves of fountain-trees that shake
A burning spray against autumnal cool
Descend again in molten drops to make
The rutted path a river and a pool.

They rise in silence, fall in quietude,
Lie still as looking-glass to every sense
Save where their lion-colour in the wood
Roars to miraculous heat and turbulence.

T HERE'S more in words than I can teach:
Yet listen, child! — I would not preach;
But only give some plain directions
To guide your speech and your affections.
Say not you love a roasted fowl,
But you may love a screaming owl,
And, if you can, the unwieldy toad
That crawls from his secure abode
Within the mossy garden wall
When evening dews begin to fall.
Oh! mark the beauty of his eye:
What wonders in that circle lie!
So clear, so bright, our fathers said
He wears a jewel in his head!

There was a young lady of station,
"I love man,' was her sole exclamation;
But when men cried: "You flatter,'
She replied: "Oh! no matter,
Isle of Man is the true explanation!'

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once — she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not travelled more.)

There was a knight, an he had a daughter,
An he wad wed her, wi muckle sin;
Sae he has biggit a bonnie bower, love,
An a' to keep his fair daughter in.

But she hadna been in the bonnie bower, love,
And no twa hours but barely ane,
Till up started Tammas, her ain true lover,
And O sae fain as he wald been in.

" For a' sae weel as I like ye, Tammas,
An for a' sae weel as I like the gin,
I wadna for ten thousand pounds, love,
Na no this night wad I let thee in.

" But yonder is a bonnie greenwud,

'Tis wind that do weäft on the clouds
In their way over hillheads;
An' waight that do roll on the water
A-winden round meäds;
An' drith that do draw on the cattle
To drink at the brook:
An' by love that the lad is a-twold
Where do live the feäir maid;
An' wi' guidance to good, oh! 'tis better
To goo than to rest.

There is no vacant chair. The loving meet,
— A group unbroken — smitten, who knows how?
One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;
— We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;
— He needed it so often, nor could we
Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do so best.
— Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.

There is no vacant chair. If he will take
— The mood to listen mutely, be it done.
By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache,