love poems for her

THE NIGHT has a thousand eyes,
The day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When its love is done.

Nephews and Nieces, — love your leaden statues.
Call them by name; call him " Paul. " She is " Virginia. "
He leans on his spade. Virginia fondles a leaden
fledgling in its nest. Paul fondles with his Eyes.
You need no cast in words. You know the Statues,
but not their Lawns; nor words to plant again
the shade trees, felled; ponds, filled, and built over.
Your Garden is destroyed, but there are other Gardens
yet to spare from the destroying Spoor
unseen, save in destructful Acts. Unseen
a hungered Octopus crawls under ground

(with Irving Mills)

If you hear a song in blue
Like a flower crying for the dew,
That was my heart serenading you,
My prelude to a kiss.
If you hear a song that grows
From my tender sentimental woes,
That was my heart trying to compose
A prelude to a kiss.
Though it's just a simple melody
With nothing fancy, nothing much,
You could turn it to a symphony,
A Schubert tune with a Gershwin touch.
Oh! How my love song gently cries
For the tenderness within your eyes.

My tall sunflowers love the sun,
Love the burning August noons
When the locust tunes its viol,
And the cricket croons.

When the purple night draws in,
With its planets hung on high,
And the attared winds of slumber
Wander down the sky,

Still my sunflowers love the sun,
Keep their ward and watch and wait
Till the rosy key of morning
Opes the Eastern Gate.

Then, when they have deeply quaffed
From the brimming cups of dew,
You can hear their golden laughter
All the garden through!

My song is love unknown,
My Saviour's love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I,
That for my sake
My Lord should take
Frail flesh, and die?

He came from his blest throne,
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know.
But O, my friend,
My friend indeed,
Who at my need
His life did spend!

Sometimes they strew his way,
And his sweet praises sing,
Resounding all the day

(with Paul Webster)

What's your story, morning glory,
What makes you look so blue?
The way that you've been acting, I don't know what to do,
For I love you, sure as one and one makes two.
What's your story, morning glory,
Got a feeling there's a lot you're concealing.
So won't you tell me that you love me, too?
What's your story, morning glory,
You've got me worried, too.
A postman came this morning and left a note for you.
Did you read it? Then you know that I love you.
What's your story, morning glory,

My Lady mine, I send
These sighs in joy to thee
Though, loving till the end,
There were no hope for me
That I should speak my love;
And I have loved indeed,
Though, having fearful heed,
It was not spoken of.

Thou art so high and great
That whom I love I fear;
Which thing to circumstate
I have no messenger:
Wherefore to Love I pray,
On whom each lover cries,
That these my tears and sighs
Find unto thee a way.

Well have I wished, when I
At heart with sighs have ach'd,

My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

My mother she's so good to me,
Ef I was good as I could be,
I couldn't be as good — no, sir! —
Can't any boy be good as her!

She loves me when I'm glad er sad;
She loves me when I'm good er bad;
An', what's a funniest thing, she says
She loves me when she punishes.

I don't like her to punish me. —
That don't hurt, — but it hurts to see
Her cryin'. — Nen I cry; an' nen
We both cry an' be good again.

She loves me when she cuts an' sews
My little cloak an' Sund'y clothes;

1

My mother called me to her deathbed side, these words she said to me:
“If your don't mend your rovin' ways, they'll put you in the penitentiary,
They'll put you in the penitentiary, poor boy, they'll put you in the penitentiary,
If you don't mend your rovin' ways, they'll put you in the penitentiary.”

2

I sat me down to play coon can, could scarcely read my hand,
A thinkin' about the woman I loved, ran away with another man.
Ran away with another man, poor boy, ran away with another man.