love poems for her

What man dare say that he is quite immune
From charms and spells that ev'ry girl possesses?
A budding love is like the warmth of June,
That lulls and dulls his senses ere he guesses;
Yet who should seek to fly from such attack?
Though stricken sore, I hold my charmer blameless;
My truant heart I would not summon back,
I leave it in the care of one who's nameless.

He jests at scars who never felt the blow
That comes when love first smites and sends him reeling;
The stinging arrow speeds and brings him low,

This is a haunted world. It hath no breeze
But is the echo of some voice beloved:
Its pines have human tones; its billows wear
The color and the sparkle of dear eyes.
Its flowers are sweet with touch of tender hands
That once clasped ours. All things are beautiful
Because of something lovelier than themselves,
Which breathes within them, and will never die.—
Haunted,—but not with any spectral gloom;
Earth is suffused, inhabited by heaven.

These blossoms, gathered in familiar paths,
With dear companions now passed out of sight,

When genius, graced with lineal splendour, glows,
When title shines, with ambient virtues crown'd,
Like some fair almond's flowery pomp it shows,
The pride, the perfume, of the regions round.

Then learn, ye Fair! to soften splendour's ray;
Endure the swain, the youth of low degree;
Let meekness join'd its temp'rate beam display;
'Tis the mild verdure that endears the tree.

Pity the sandall'd swain, the shepherd's boy;
He sighs to brighten a neglected name;
Foe to the dull applause of vulgar joy,

It is the dead sex of the earth
On which the sun still gazes.

It is all the mountains of love,
Into whose sarcophagus
Peers

We loved so well in that old time;
But we and Love grew old together:
Old age forgets youth's golden prime
We loved so well in that old time;
But youth and truth it is that rhyme,
And winter follows summer weather.
We loved so well in that old time;
But we and Love grew old together.

CLXXXIII

Pain of all pain, the most grievous pain
Is to love heartily and cannot be loved again.

Love with unkindness is causer of heaviness,
Of inward sorrow and sighs painful.
Whereas I love is no redress
To no manner of pastime: the sprites so dull
With privy mournings and looks rueful,
The body all wearish, the colour pale and wan,
More like a ghost than like a living man

When Cupido hath inflamed the heart's desires
To love there as is disdain;
Of good or ill the mind oblivious,

Love is the master of the ring
And life a circus tent.
What is this silly song you sing?
Love is the master of the ring.

I am afraid!
Afraid of Love
And of Love's bitter whip!
Afraid,
Afraid of Love
And Love's sharp, stinging whip.

What is this silly song you sing?
Love is the master of the ring.

The Mina stream comes tumbling down
From Mount Tsukuba's height;
Strong as my love, it leaps into
A pool as black as night
With overwhelming might.

Nobler than solemn organ tone
Or earth's sublimest art,
Deeper than ocean's mystic moan,
Love sings his ancient song alone,
The music of the heart.

All down the immemorial sweep
Of life's immortal way,
O'er sunny height or deathly deep,
Where Love and Light their strong course keep,
'Tis everlasting day.

Oh, Love is strong to breast the wave
On seas of circumstance,
And Love is bold and Love is brave,
Though weeping by a lonely grave
Upon the shores of Chance!

O vision of the cloudless eye,

Sometimes, across these later years
One memory chaste and holy
Drifts back and makes me love my past
For that sweet reason solely;
Not any tide of time or chance
Bears out of sight the old romance.

No love on earth can satisfy
The dream of child or poet;
I who was happy, guessed it not—
I who am sadder, know it,
Yet—O dear days! O sweet belief!
O so well worth all later grief!

And all fair things, too pure for earth,
And therefore briefly given,—
Lent to us for a passing hour