love poems for her

My love she wore a muslin cap and trim[m] ed wi' ribbons blue
What time the trees were full o' sap and meadows cowslips new
In meadows and on meadow banks in baulks and clover too
The white horse daisy's stand in ranks all silvered wi' the dew

My love she wore a pleasant gown and owned a rosy face
The prettiest girl o' half the town the finest i' the place
Her waist was sweet and sweet her size fleshy and fair not tall
Bright as the milkmaids were her eyes her neck white as the wall

Love is a sirrup; and who er'e we see
Sick and surcharg'd with this sacietie:
Shall by this pleasing trespasse quickly prove,
Ther's loathsomnesse e'en in the sweets of love.

Maidens tell me I am old;
Let me in my Glasse behold
Whether smooth or not I be,
Or if haire remaines to me.
Well, or be't or be't not so,
This for certainty I know;
Ill it fits old men to play,
When that Death bids come away.

The one I love
Is south of the great lakes
What shall I send you?
A tortoise shell hatpin with twin pearls,
With jade I'll braid and plait it.
I hear that you have another love—
I will break it, smash and burn it,
Smash and burn it,
Face into the wind, scatter its ashes.
From this day on
Nevermore will I love you.
My love for you is severed
Cocks crow, dogs bark.
My brother and his wife must find out.
Alas! Oh my!
Autumn winds sough, sough Dawn Wind hastens
The east at a blink whitening will find out!

One sunny time in May
When lambs were sporting,
The sap ran in the spray
And I went courting,
And all the apple-boughs
Were bright with blossom,
I picked an early rose
For my love's bosom.

And then I met her friend,
Down by the water,
Who cried, “She's met her end,
That grey-eyed daughter,
That voice of hers is stilled.
Her beauty broken.”
Oh, me! my love is killed,
My love unspoken.

She was too sweet, too dear,
To die so cruel.
O Death, why leave me here
And take my jewel?

Oh , turn thy bow,
Thy power we feel and know,
Fair Cupid, turn away thy bow:
They be those golden arrows,
Bring ladies all their sorrows,
And till there be more truth in men,
Never shoot at maid again.
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves:
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly:
There's nought in this life sweet
If man were wise to see't,
But our melancholy,
O sweetest Melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!

You must be very old, Sir Giles,”
I said; he said: “Yea, very old:”
Whereat the mournfullest of smiles
Creased his dry skin with many a fold.

“They hammer'd out my basnet point
Into a round salade,” he said,
“The basnet being quite out of joint,
Natheless the salade rasps my head.”

He gazed at the great fire awhile:
“And you are getting old, Sir John;”
(He said this with that cunning smile
That was most sad) “we both wear on,

“Knights come to court and look at me,
With eyebrows up, except my lord

I WILL row my boat on Muckross Lake when the grey of the dove
Comes down at the end of the day; and a quiet like prayer
Grows soft in your eyes, and among your fluttering hair
The red of the sun is mixed with the red of your cheek.
I will row you, O boat of my heart! till our mouths have forgotten to speak
In the silence of love, broken only by trout that spring
And are gone, like a fairy's finger that casts a ring
With the luck of the world for the hand that can hold it fast.

Give beauty all her right;
She 's not to one form tied.
Each shape yields fair delight,
Where her perfections bide.
Helen I grant might pleasing be,
And Rosamond was as sweet as she.

Some the quick eye commends,
Some swelling lips and red;
Pale looks have many friends,
Through sacred sweetness bred.
Meadows have flowers that pleasure move,
Though roses are the flowers of love.

Free beauty is not bound
To one unmoved clime.
She visits every ground,
And favours every time.