love poems for her

O, subtle Love! thy peace is war,
It wounds and kills without a scar,
It works unknown to any sense,
Like the decrees of Providence,
And with strange silence shoots me through,
The fire of Love doth fell like snow.
Hath she no quiver, but my heart?
Must all her arrows hit that part?
Beauties like heav'n their gifts should deal
Not to destroy us, but to heal.
Strange art of Love! that can make sound,
And yet exasperates the wound:
That look she lent to ease my heart,
Hath pierc'd it, and improv'd the smart.

Mark, when the evening's cooler wings
Fan the afflicted air, how the faint sun,
Leaving undone,
What he begun,
Those spurious flames suck'd up from slime and earth
To their first, low birth,
Resigns, and brings.

They shoot their tinsel beams and vanities,
Threading with those false fires their way;
But as you stay
And see them stray,
You lose the flaming track, and subtly they
Languish away,

Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath
Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death;
Doating idolater! can silence bring
Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try
This silent courtship of a sickly eye.
Witty to tyranny, she too well knows
This but the incense of thy private vows,
That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray
The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move,
The language of thy tears may make her love.

The Sigh.

Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings,
Take this message and depart;
Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings,
At what thy airy voyage brings,
That thou cam'st lately from my heart.

Tell my lovely foe that I
Have no more such spies to send,
But one or two that I intend,
Some few minutes ere I die,
To her white bosom to commend.

Then whisper by that holy spring,
Where for her sake I would have died,
Whilst those water-nymphs did bring

We travelled in the print of olden wars;
Yet all the land was green;
And love we found, and peace,
Where fire and war had been.

They pass and smile, the children of the sword--
No more the sword they wield;
And O, how deep the corn
Along the battlefield!

I am a kind of farthing dip,
Unfriendly to the nose and eyes;
A blue-behinded ape, I skip
Upon the trees of Paradise.

At mankind's feast, I take my place
In solemn, sanctimonious state,
And have the air of saying grace
While I defile the dinner-plate.

I am "the smiler with the knife,"
The battener upon garbage, I--
Dear Heaven, with such a rancid life
Were it not better far to die?

Yet still, about the human pale,
I love to scamper, love to race,
To swing by my irreverent tail

You too, my mother, read my rhymes
For love of unforgotten times,
And you may chance to hear once more
The little feet along the floor.

There is too much of sighing, and weaving
Of pitiful tales of despair.
There is too much of wailing and grieving,
And too much of railing at care.
There is far too much glorification
Of money and pleasure and fame;
But I sing the joy of my station,
And I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of tremble-lip telling
Of hurts that have come with the fight.
There is too much of pitiful dwelling
On plans that have failed to go right.
There is too much of envious pining
For luxuries others may claim.

Songs of rejoicin',
Of love and of cheer,
Are the songs that I'm yearnin' for
Year after year.
The songs about children
Who laugh in their glee
Are the songs worth the singin',
The bright songs for me.

Songs of rejoicin',
Of kisses and love,
Of faith in the Father,
Who sends from above
The sunbeams to scatter
The gloom and the fear;
These songs worth the singin',
The songs of good cheer.

Songs of rejoicin',
Oh, sing them again,
The brave songs of courage

She I love (alas in vain!)
Floats before my slumbering eyes:
When she comes she lulls my pain,
When she goes what pangs arise!
Thou whom love, whom memory flies,
Gentle Sleep! prolong thy reign!
If even thus she soothe my sighs,
Never let me wake again!