love poems for her

I seek the woods with courage brave,
I fear no robber's snares;
A loving heart is all I have,
For that no robber cares.

Who breaks, who rustles through the bush,
A murderer threatening death?
My lover forward springs, and—hush!
With hugs nigh chokes my breath!

Love's a gentle, gen'rous passion,
Source of all sublime delight,
When with mutual inclination
Two fond hearts in one unite.

What are titles, pomp or riches,
If compar'd with true content?
That false joy which now bewitches
When obtain'd, we may repent.

Lawless passions bring vexation,
But a chaste and constant love
Is a glorious emulation
Of the blissful state above.

Listen a while, the moon is a lovely woman, a lonely woman, lost in a silver dress, lost in a circus rider's silver dress.

Listen a while, the lake by night is a lonely woman, a lovely woman, circled with birches and pines mixing their green and white among stars shattered in spray clear nights.

I know the moon and the lake have twisted the roots under my heart the same as a lonely woman, a lovely woman, in a silver dress, in a circus rider's silver dress.

My God, wilt Thou accept, and will not we
Give aught to Thee?
The kept we lose, the offered we retain
Or find again.

Yet if our gift were lost, we well might lose
All for Thy use:
Well lost for Thee, Whose Love is all for us

The lips of Venus are as sweet
Though sipped within a London street,
And her rich hair
Is just as soft for lips to meet
In London air.

And Daphne's limbs are pure and white
Though darkness of a London night
Beholds them kissed,
Not skies with tints of sapphire bright
Or amethyst.

And Psyche's lips are no less red
In that two thousand years have fled
With all their flowers
Since her old namesake sweet was wed
In Southern bowers

And passion is no less divine

And do I waste my time
Scribbling of love to my beautiful queen
And is it idle to talk in prose & rhyme
Of one who at midnight & morning's prime
In daylight is fancied, in visions seen?
And do I forget the burning crown
That Glory should weave of light for me

She is a sweet and bonny thing
Not older than fifteen
Though old enough to wear a ring
But not the maidens gaudy thing
Could I but know the thoughts of her
In abscence all the day
As men tell money by the chink
I'd then know what to say.

I love to see her gown of green
Her breast of fairest clay
Her thoughts are purity within
Like th' pink inside o' may
And frae the ancle to the shin
She's like a bunch o' flowers
Lovely without & fair within
Like summers choices hours.

I know not why or whence he came
Or how he chanced to go;
I only know he brought me love,
And going—left me woe.

I do not ask that he turn back
Nor seek where he may rove,
For where woe rules can never be
The dwelling place of love.

For love went out the door of hope
And on and on has fled,
Caring no more to dwell within
The house where faith is dead.

Now when the spirit in us wakes and broods,
Filled with home yearnings, drowsily it flings
From its deep heart high dreams and mystic moods,
Mixed with the memory of the loved earth things:
Clothing the vast with a familiar face;
Reaching its right hand forth to greet the starry race.

Wondrously near and clear the great warm fires
Stare from the blue; so shows the cottage light
To the field labourer whose heart desires
The old folk by the nook, the welcome bright
From the house-wife long parted from at dawn—

Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.
The song I read, the book I close,
And fling away the yellow rose.
No matter! Always, East and West,
Will yellow roses still be pressed.

Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.