love poems for her

I.

In the day my thoughts are tender
When I muse on my ladye fair.
There is never one to offend her,
For each is pure as a prayer.
They float like spirits above her,
About her and always near;
And they scarce dare sigh that they love her,
Because she would blush to hear.

But in dreams my thoughts grow bolder;
And close to my lips of fire,
I reach out my arms and enfold her,
My ladye, my heart's desire.
And she who, in earthly places,
Seems cold as the stars above,

Object adorable of charms!
My sighs and tears may testifie my harms;
But my respect forbids me to reveal.
Ah, what a pain 'tis to conceal!
And how I suffer worse then hell,
To love, and not to dare to tell!

I.
Introth, I do my self perswade,
That the wilde boy is grown a man,
And all his childishnesse off laid,
E're since LUCASTA did his fires fan;
H' has left his apish jigs,
And whipping hearts like gigs:
For t' other day I heard him swear,
That beauty should be crown'd in honours chair.

II.
With what a true and heavenly state
He doth his glorious darts dispence,
Now cleans'd from falsehood, blood and hate,
And newly tipt with innocence!
Love Justice is become,

I.
I cannot tell, who loves the skeleton
Of a poor marmoset; nought but boan, boan;
Give me a nakednesse, with her cloath's on.

II.
Such, whose white-sattin upper coat of skin,
Cut upon velvet rich incarnadin,
Has yet a body (and of flesh) within.

III.
Sure, it is meant good husbandry in men,
Who do incorporate with aery leane,
T' repair their sides, and get their ribb agen.

IV.
Hard hap unto that huntsman, that decrees

I.
Now fie upon that everlasting life! I dye!
She hates! Ah me! It makes me mad;
As if love fir'd his torch at a moist eye,
Or with his joyes e're crown'd the sad.
Oh, let me live and shout, when I fall on;
Let me ev'n triumph in the first attempt!
Loves duellist from conquest 's not exempt,
When his fair murdresse shall not gain one groan,
And he expire ev'n in ovation.

II.
Let me make my approach, when I lye downe
With counter-wrought and travers eyes;

I.
The childish god of love did sweare
Thus: By my awfull bow and quiver,
Yon' weeping, kissing, smiling pair,
I'le scatter all their vowes i' th' ayr,
And their knit imbraces shiver.

II.
Up then to th' head with his best art
Full of spite and envy blowne,
At her constant marble heart,
He drawes his swiftest surest dart,
Which bounded back, and hit his owne.

III.
Now the prince of fires burnes;
Flames in the luster of her eyes;

CARMEN EROTICUM.

Deare Lovelace, I am now about to prove
I cannot write a verse, but can write love.
On such a subject as thy booke I coo'd
Write books much greater, but not half so good.
But as the humble tenant, that does bring
A chicke or egges for's offering,
Is tane into the buttry, and does fo
Equall with him that gave a stalled oxe:
So (since the heart of ev'ry cheerfull giver
Makes pounds no more accepted than a stiver),
Though som thy prayse in rich stiles sing, I may

The little hands returning wistfully
From birdlike wand'rings, ever come to rest,
On fostering hand on tender cheek or breast;
The upturned eyes, with loving certainty
Seek ever the grave face where broodingly,
The mother-soul by yearning love opprest,
With wings down-drooped, seems folded o'er the nest
Where lies the Hope of all humanity.
And she His World, and He her Calvary,--
He wraps her round with all the mystery
Of love predestined for earth's needy ones;
"Be comforted," it seems He fain would say,

Dawn, with hallowed flame, seemed to sing your name
Through our open window as the golden glory came.
Ardor thrilled me through; Dawn again--with you!
"Up and at the world again! The world is made anew!"

Newly on my sight flashed the lovely light,
All the ringing roads of fame glittered broad and bright.
On again! with new visions to pursue;
And dawn again, dawn again, dawn again--with you!

Other dawns may keep joy as pure and deep?
Dawns of greater splendor may awaken me from sleep?
Nay! they never can bless a stubborn man

Love scorns that Love implore you
To bind his hurts or heal;
Prays only, arm around you,
To draw on hours that hound you,
To whirl his sword before you
And fence your path with steel.

Not for the beauty of you,
The peace of all your ways,
He burns--but in your quarrel
To hold the pass of peril,
To stand at arms above you
Against embattled days.

No comfort for his blundering
He cries your heart to yield,
But that his arm enfold you,
His shield-arm shield and hold you