love poems for her

Stop running more. You must—indeed you shall.
See how your feet are hurt. Your breath comes fast
And all in vain. Light as you are, you see
I can outrun you, and these briers and brakes
That tear your tender feet will never harm
My horny hoofs. Why do you fly from me?
I mean no ill. Stop. Rest upon this bank,
Soft with green mosses, sprinkled with quaint flowers
And listen to me while you get your breath.
Bacchus is in the distant vale, so far
His cymbals scarcely reach us—far away
Silenus and his rout—they'll never hear

My heart was winter-bound until
I heard you sing:
O voice of Love, hush not, but fill
My life with Spring!

My hopes were homeless things before
I saw your eyes:
O smile of Love, close not the door
To paradise!

My dreams were bitter once, and then
I found them bliss:
O lips of Love, give me again
Your rose to kiss!

Springtide of love! The secret sweet
Is ours alone:
O heart of Love, at last you beat
Against my own!

I love the ruddy cheek, that glows
Bright as the crimson-flowering rose,
That in the Spring most sweetly blows;
But yet I love to see,
More than this cheek that brightly glows,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the arm of fairest snow,
Round as the tapering trees that grow,
Where streams in purest currents flow;
But yet I love to see,
More than this arm of fairest snow,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the jetty, curling hair,
That floats around the bosom fair,

Vaile, love, mine eyes, O hide from me
The plagues that charge the curious minde:
If beauty private will not be,
Suffice it yet that she proves kinde.
Who can usurp heav'ns light alone?
Stars were not made to shine on one.

Griefes past recure fooles try to heale,
That greater harmes on lesse inflict;
The pure offend by too much zeale,
Affection should not be too strict.
Hee that a true embrace will finde
To beauties faults must still be blinde.

Deep within my heart of hearts, dear,
Bound with all its strings,
Two Loves are together reigning,
Both are crowned like Kings;
While my life, still uncomplaining,
Rests beneath their wings.

So they both will rule my heart, dear,
Till it cease to beat;
No sway can be deeper, stronger,
Truer, more complete;
Growing, as it lasts the longer
Sweeter, and more sweet.

One all life and time transfigures;
Piercing through and through
Meaner things with magic splendor,
Old, yet ever new:

Last night our love seemed splendid certainty;
I held you close and saw the whole round world
With all its fair tumultuous lovely things,
Mirrored within your eyes.

At daybreak, when grey morning slowly lifts
Her heavy eyelids neath the wan sun's gaze,
A cold doubt creeps within my colder heart,
And love seems nought, or at the most seems lies.

She lives, she lives up in the hills,
Where mists and eagles are;
Blithe shepherdess of rocks and rills,
'Twixt mortal and a star.

Of acorns is her necklace made,
And reddest berries found;
While slender vines, in glossy braid,
About her brow are bound.

No fairy foots it half so light,
A dancing on the green;
Nor curls a sunny cloud so bright,
The pines and sky between.

My shepherdess of rocks and rills!
We dwell the world above;
She lives and loves up in the hills,
And I live in her love.

Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow—
We die.
Let us eat and drink. Wherefore borrow
From griefs that will never come nigh?
Spread the feast, pour the wine,
Wreathe the brows with rose-twine,
Woo the harp into pulses of passion divine.
Remember how soon
The belfry's dull rune
Shall summon us hence from our comrades boon.
Then deaf to their cry,
Unheeding the tears of this sorrow,
How low we shall lie!
Then, eat and drink, for tomorrow—
We die.

Let us love and laugh, for tomorrow—
We die.

High is the mountain-top—
But there's a lower peak.
Far away lives my love;
Nearer a girl's to seek.

Oxen and cows hath she—
My love of far away,
Loveliness only holds;
Yet is she rich to-day.

Linen all bleached and white
Lies in my neighbour's chest—
Ah, but an eyebrow black
Counts more than all the rest!

Fair maid so close to me,
What leagues are we apart—
Over the hills to thee
I come, I come, Sweetheart!

How many evenings, walking soberly
Along our street all dappled with rich sun,
I please myself with words, and happily
Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run;
And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies
Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask,
Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes
And traitor hand that fails the well loved task!

Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft
But he had put away his sleep, his ease,
The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed,
To brood upon such thankless tricks as these?