love poems for her

Merciless Love, whom nature hath denied
The use of eyes, lest thou shouldst take a pride
And glory in thy murthers:
Why am I

That never yet transgress'd thy deity,
Never broke vow, from whose eyes never
Flew disdainful dart,
Whose hard heart none e'er slew,
Thus ill rewarded?

Thou art young and fair,
Thy Mother soft and gentle as the air,
Thy holy fire still burning, blown with prayer.
Then, everlasting Love, restrain thy will,
'Tis god-like to have power, but not to kill.

When my love and I lie dead,
Both together on one bed,
Shall it first be truly said,
“Fate was kindly; they are wed!”

When they come the shroud to make
Some sweet soul shall say, “Awake
From your long white sleep, and take
Feast of kisses for love's sake.”

And though we nor see nor hear—
Safe from sorrow—safe from fear,
Both together on one bier,
We shall feel each other near.

Oh my lover, oh my friend,
This I know will be the end—
Only when our ashes blend
Will our heavy fortunes mend.

In December the stubble nearly is
Most loved of things.
The rooks as in the dark trees are its friends
And make part of it . . .

Now when the hills shine far
And light and set off
That darkness, all my heart cries angrily
That music to fashion

For if not so, one must go
To the stubble every day
For comfort against such emptiness
As lost treasures make.

Cruelly scare the choughs from
Fallows and trees alike—
Though dim in love, or bright far
With the hills heroically they ally.

I WOULD not have this perfect love of ours
Grow from a single root, a single stem,
Bearing no goodly fruit, but only flowers
That idly hide life's iron diadem:
It should grow alway like that Eastern tree
Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly;
That love for one, from which there doth not spring
Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing
Not in another world, as poets prate,
Dwell we apart above the tide of things,
High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings;
But our pure love doth ever elevate

Away, sad voices, telling
Of old, forgotten pain!
My heart, at grief rebelling,
To joy returns again.
My life, at tears protesting,
To long delight returns,
Where, close of all my questing,
Her dear eyes love discerns.

Guard thee, my friend, from grimmest devils' jaws,
More dangerous yet are angels softly smiling;
One such I knew, and she my heart beguiling,
Proffered sweet kiss—right soon I felt sharp claws—
Guard thee, my friend, from black old pussy's paws;
More dangerous yet are white young kittens mewing—
One such I took for Love, to my undoing—
My heart was torn to rags—my Love the cause—
Oh sweet beguiler! wondrous lovely maiden!
How could thine eyes of clearest blue deceive me?
Could thy soft paw of my heart's flesh bereave me?

If for
even
one night
the grasses
of my passion
were cut and gathered,
ah, what
a pile
they would make—
a mountain reaching

If I entreat this lady that all grace
Seem not unto her heart an enemy,
Foolish and evil thou declarest me,
And desperate in idle stubbornness.
Whence is such cruel judgement thine, whose face,
To him that looks thereon, professeth thee
Faithful, and wise, and of all courtesy,
And made after the way of gentleness?
Alas! my soul within my heart doth find
Sighs, and its grief by weeping doth enhance,
That, drowned in bitter tears, those sighs depart:
And then there seems a presence in the mind,

"These Gothic windows, how they wear me out
With cusp and foil, and nothing straight or square,
Crude colours, leaden borders roundabout,
And fitting in Peter here, and Matthew there!

"What a vocation! Here do I draw now
The abnormal, loving the Hellenic norm;
Martha I paint, and dream of Hera's brow,
Mary, and think of Aphrodite's form."

O ye who love today,
Turn away
From Patience with her silver ray:
For Patience shows a twilight face,
Like a half-lighted moon
When daylight dies apace.

But ye who love tomorrow
Beg or borrow
Today some bitterness of sorrow:
For Patience shows a lustrous face,
In depth of night her noon;
Then to her sun gives place.