love poems for her

Like the first star that heralds glorious eve,
Like the first blush that beckons in the day,
Like the first snowdrop lavish Aprils weave
To deck the bosom of the festive May;
Like the warm carol of the early bird
Whose note was mute before, or idly heard;
Like all dear things just bursting; like the bloom

Of the first rosebud rending its green tomb,—
So burst thy love upon my helpless life,
Dear Mother, when that hour of pain and strife
That laid me in thine arms, gave place to tears
Of exquisite, sweet joy and holy fears!

Leave this gawdy guilded Stage
From custome more than use frequented
Where fooles of either sex and age
Crowd to see themselves presented.
To loves Theatre the Bed
Youth and beauty fly together
And Act soe well it may be said
The Lawrell there was due to either.
Twixt strifes of Love and war the difference Lies in this
When neither overcomes Loves triumph greater is.

As love and I, late harbour'd in one Inne,
With Proverbs thus each other intertaine:
In Love there is no lack, thus I begin,
Faire words make Fooles, replyeth he againe;
Who spares to speake, doth spare to speed (quoth I)
As well (sayth he) too forward, as too slow;
Fortune assists the boldest, I reply,
A hastie Man (quoth he) ne'r wanted Woe;
Labour is light, where Love (quoth I) doth pay,
(Saith he) Light Burthen's heavy, if farre borne;
(Quoth I) The Maine lost, cast the By away;

Since to obtaine thee, nothing me will sted,
I have a Med'cine that shall cure my Love,
The powder of her Heart dry'd, when she is dead,
That Gold nor Honour ne'r had pow'r to move;
Mix'd with her Teares, that ne'r her true-Love crost,
Nor at Fifteene ne'r long'd to be a Bride,
Boyl'd with her Sighes, in giving up the Ghost,
That for her late deceased Husband dy'd;
Into the same then let a Woman breathe,
That being chid, did never word replie,
With one thrice-marry'd's Pray'rs, that did bequeath
A Legacie to stale Virginitie.

That learned Father, which so firmely proves
The Soule of Man immortall and divine,
And doth the sev'rall Offices define:
Gives her that Name, as she the Body moves,
Then is she Love, imbracing Charitie,
Moving a Will in us, it is the Mind,
Retayning Knowledge, still the same in kind;
As intellectuall, it is Memorie,
In judging, Reason onely is her Name,
In speedie apprehension, it is Sense,
In Right or Wrong, they call her Conscience,
The Spirit, when it to God-ward doth inflame:
These of the Soule the sev'rall Functions bee,

Nothing but No and I, and I and No,
How fals it out so strangely you reply?
I tell yee (Faire) ile not be answered so,
With this affirming No, denying I.
I say, I Love, you sleightly answere I:
I say, You Love, you peule me out a No:
I say, I Die, you Eccho me with I:
Save mee I Crie, you sigh me out a No;
Must Woe and I, have naught but No and I?
No I, am I, if I no more can have;
Answere no more, with Silence make reply,
And let me take my selfe what I doe crave,
Let No and I, with I and you be so:

Who says
That it's by my desire,
This separation, this living so far from you?
My dress still smells of the lavender you gave:
My hand still holds the letter that you sent.
Round my waist I wear a double sash:
I dream that it binds us both with a same-heart knot.
Did not you know that people hide their love,
Like a flower that seems too precious to be picked?

Love-dazed, on rosy paths I sought thee far;
That was the spring, my gay and stormy prime.
Then I encountered thee with smiles and war;
Those were the manhood years of summer-time.
I thank thee for the joy thy presence gave;
'T is autumn, when our bed must be—the grave.

At my threshold stands a guest;
Shall I, dare I, bid him enter?
'T is the very dead of winter;
Snowy roads his feet have pressed;
Inhospitably I wait,
Trembling, still I hesitate.

With his wings he veils his face,
And a glory half divine
Like a nimbus seems to shine
Round him, making bright the place.
Cold the night, and yet I stand,
On the latch a halting hand.

What if I should bid him come,
And with him should enter Woe?
For 't is whispered, well we know,
That the pair together roam;

If I had chosen, my tears had all been dews;
I would have drawn a bird's or blossom's breath,
Nor outmoaned yonder dove. I did not choose—
And here is Life for me, and there is Death.

Ay, here is Life. Bloom for me, violet;
Whisper me, Love, all things that are not true;
Sing, nightingale and lark, till Iforget—
For here is Life, and I have need of you.

So, there is Death. Fade, violet, from the land;
Cease from your singing, nightingale and lark;
Forsake me, Love, for I without your hand