love poems for her

She sews the morning hours away,
She sews away the noon;
She sews as glittering seasons pass—
June, October, June.
And as her needle runs she sings
A little ravelling tune—
She sings a ravelling tune.

She sings with words as light as breath
And soft as April rain,
And of the song she sings none hears
More than the thin refrain—
The ravelling refrain:
O some may sew for love's own sake,
And some must sew for pain.

Below the world of life moves by
As life must ever move—
Must ever, ever move,

I' VE had the heart-ache many times,
At the mere mention of a name
I've never woven in my rhymes,
Though from it inspiration came.
It is in truth a holy thing,
Life-cherished from the world apart—
A dove that never tries its wing,
But broods and nestles in the heart.

That name of melody recalls
Her gentle look and winning ways
Whose portrait hangs on memory's walls,
In the fond light of other days.
In the dream-land of Poetry,
Reclining in its leafy bowers,
Her bright eyes in the stars I see,

By one God created, by one S AVIOUR saved,
By one S PIRIT lighted, by one MARK engraved,
We're taught in the wisdom our spirits approve,
To cherish the spirit of B ROTHERLY LOVE .
Love, love, Brotherly love—
This world hath no spirit like Brotherly love.

In the land of the stranger we Masons abide,
In forest, in quarry, on Lebanon's side;
Yon temple we're building, the plan's from above,
And we labor, supported by B ROTHERLY LOVE .

Though the service be hard, and the wages be scant,

O F all the wares so pretty
That come into the city,
There's none are so delicious,
There's none are half so precious,
As those which we are bringing.
O, listen to our singing!
Young loves to sell! young loves to sell!
My pretty loves who'll buy?

First look you at the oldest,
The wantonest, the boldest!
So loosely goes he hopping,
From tree and thicket dropping,
Then flies aloft as sprightly—
We dare but praise him lightly!
The fickle rogue! Young loves to sell!
My pretty loves who'll buy?

It's that old devil called love again,
Gets behind me, keeps giving me that shove again,
Putting rain in my eyes, tears in my dreams,
And rocks in my head.
It's that sly son-of-a-gun again,
He keeps telling me that I'm the lucky one again,
But I still have that rain, still have those tears,
And those rocks in my head.
Suppose I didn't stay—
Ran away, wouldn't play—
That devil, what a potion he would brew.
He'd follow me around, fill me up, tear me down,
Till I'd be so bewildered, I wouldn't know what to do.

Alas! your poet loves you: he,
Who dearer is to you, than I,
May better guide you o'er the sea
Of Life, beneath God's threatening sky;
Yet, yet remember this, that he
Can never, never your poet be.

Speak not to me of parting here—
I will not have it so!
One of us may in some dread year,
Some year of chill and snow,
Pass on, but part? By all above,
That we shall never do,
For you are all myself, my Love,
And I am one with you!

You may be called to some far spot,
On some blest errand bent,
And leave me here to moan my lot
In grievous discontent,
But parted? Never! Dire defeat
Dogs those who'd make us two,
For you are all myself, my Sweet,
And I am one with you!

All her charms
are bubbles
from a tilted
cigarette—

And look!
she sees
to light them
his face!

Whereas for us
his sleek
black hair
is hint enough.

“Oh, my thinness is caused by summer heat,”
I answered, and burst into tears.

A lovely bouquet of wild treasures they brought me,
Fresh and sweet from the hedgerow, the marsh, and the brake,
Which lavish such fragrance and brightness around me
That I cannot but love them for fair Beauty's sake.

Osmunda! thou king of all ferns, celebrated
And long-honoured by minstrel in ballad and rhyme,
How welcome thy shade near the cool, rippling streamlet,
'Neath the tall leafy trees in the warm summer-time.

Not less art thou welcome 'mid orchis and iris,
Brilliant blossoms, thy emerald beauty to grace;