love poems for her

Our first young love resembles
That short but brilliant ray,
Which smiles and weeps and trembles
Thro' April's earliest day.
And not all life before us,
Howe'er its lights may play,
Can shed a lustre o'er us
Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander
A blaze serener, grander;
Our autumn beam
May, like a dream
Of heaven, die calm away;
But no--let life before us
Bring all the light it may,
'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us
Like that first youthful ray.

Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping,
While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love,
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then happier still must be they who have none, love.
And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,
I care not how many bright eyes I may see;
Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her,

When on the lip the sigh delays,
As if 'twould linger there for ever;
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
Yet still look down and venture never;
When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove,
There's one we dream of more than any--
If all this is not real love,
'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute and listen to their beating:
To see but one bright object move,

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crest his way.--
"It is a sunny hour of play,
"For which repentance dear doth pay;
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love, as wise men say."
"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.--
"Soft as a passing summer's wind,
"Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?
"Repentance! Repentance!
"And this is Love--when love is o'er."

"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again,
Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.

If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me,
And think this heart to other loves will stray,
If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;
By every dream I have when thou'rt away,
By every throb I feel when thou art near me,
I love but thee--I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing,
Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne,
And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying,
Or grave or gay, a music of its own,
A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee,
"So may the stars obey thee
"So may each airy
"Moon-elf and fairy
"Nightly their homage pay thee!
"Say, by what spell, above, below,
"In stars that wink or flowers that blow,
"I may discover,
"Ere night is over,
"Whether my love loves me, or no,
"Whether my love loves me."

"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee
"Hath charms no gold could buy thee;
"Its stem enchanted.
"By moon-elves planted,
"Will all thou seek'st supply thee.

Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art,
Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart
Shall all other passions disown;
Like some pure temple that shines apart,
Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and in sorrow, thro' praise and thro' blame,
Thus still let me, living and dying the same,
In Thy service bloom and decay--
Like some lone altar whose votive flame
In holiness wasteth away.

Tho' born in this desert, and doomed by my birth
To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth,

Angel of Charity, who, from above,
Comest to dwell a pilgrim here,
Thy voice is music, thy smile is love,
And Pity's soul is in thy tear.
When on the shrine of God were laid
First-fruits of all most good and fair,
That ever bloomed in Eden's shade,
Thine was the holiest offering there.

Hope and her sister, Faith, were given
But as our guides to yonder sky;
Soon as they reach the verge of heaven,
There, lost in perfect bliss, they die.
But, long as Love, Almighty Love,

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,
Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if at times a light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,
From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly decked,
As if themselves were things divine.
No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast

If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes,
First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies:
Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne,
Her Right Divine is given by Love alone.

What would the rose with all her pride be worth,
Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?
Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown,
Wait but that light which comes from Love alone.

Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear,
Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year: