love poems for her

Love, the most gen'rous passion of the mind,
The softest refuge innocence can find,
The safe director of unguided youth,
Fraught with kind wishes, and secured by truth,
That cordial drop heav'n in our cup hath thrown
To make the nauseous draught of life go down;
On which one only blessing God might raise
In lands of atheists subsidies of praise;
For none did e'er so dull and stupid prove,
But felt a God, and blessed his pow'r in love.

My soul, they say, is hard and cold,
And nought can move me
Perchance 'tis so 'midst life's wild whirl,
But, oh! on Beauty's lips, my girl,
'Twill melt like Cleopatra's pearl;
Then love me, love me.
I would not climb th' ambitious heights
That soar above me;
I do not ask thee to bestow
Or wealth or honours on me now,
Or wreathe with laurel leaves my brow;
But love me, love me.

Oh! I'll gaze on thee till my fond
Fix'd glances move thee;
Love's glance sometimes the coldest warms:

My love gave me a passion-flower.
I nursed it well—so brief its hour!
My eyelids ache, my throat is dry:
He told me that it would not die.

My love and I are one, and yet
Full oft my cheeks with tears are wet—
So sweet the night is and the bower!
My love gave me a passion-flower.

So sweet! Hold fast my hands. Can God
Make all this joy revert to sod,
And leave to me but this for dower—
My love gave me a passion-flower.

Gazing on my idol-treasure,
All my soul is lost in joy;
She affords eternal pleasure,
And can never, never cloy.

Ev'ry motion, ev'ry feature
Shines with such peculiar grace;
Never, sure, was human creature
Blest with such an angel's face.

TO HENRY .

?A ND has that heart, unmoved so long
?By beauty, softness, wit, and song,
At length been taught love's pleasing pains to feel?
Ah! no;....I fear, not e'en Amanda's charms
Have in thy breast waked passion's fond alarms:
But let my verse love's genuine signs reveal,....
And if your blushes answering symptoms prove,
Then will I own that you have learnt to love.
?If with confusion's deepening red
?Your manly cheek be not o'erspread
Whene'er by chance you hear Amanda's name,....

1. Oh, Mexico, my Mexico, Heave away, Santy
Anno! Oh, Mexico, my Mexico, All along
the plains of Mexico.
2 The ladies there, oh, I do adore,
3 Where I began my lifelong store.
4 Now, the girls are pretty with their long black hair.
5 Oh, in Mexico where I do belong,
6 I've found my señora right there!
7 Now, Mexico, you know what you are.
Oh, Mexico, well you know what you are.
8 You've loved me dear and you've taught me well!
9 Now, I'd love to be in Sannajooves tonight.
10 Now, really it seems only to be, etc.

‘Here in the window beaming across
Is he—the lineaments like him so!—
The saint whose name I do not know,
With the holy robe and the cheek aglow.
Here will I kneel as if worshipping God
When all the time I am worshipping you,
Whose Love I was—
You that with me will nevermore tread anew
The paradise-paths we trod!’

She came to that prominent pew each day,
And sat there. Zealously she came
And watched her Love—looking just the same
From the rubied eastern tracery-frame—
The man who had quite forsaken her

I love one, and he loveth me:
Who sayeth this? who deemeth this?
And is this thought a cause of bliss,
Or source of misery?

The loved may die, or he may change:
And if he die thou art bereft;
Or if he alter, nought is left
Save life that seemeth strange.

A weary life, a hopeless life,
Full of all ill and fear-oppressed;
A weary life that looks for rest
Alone after death's strife.

And love's joy hath no quiet even;
It evermore is variable.
Its gladness is like war in Hell,

Because I feel that I cannot forget,
I think thee, Lord!—Because for ever now
My eyes will meet the sinless eyes I met,
And see the dark hair shade a sinless brow:

Because, though she is dead,—aye, dead in shame,
Polluted through the villany of one
Who, lusting, did in love's dishonoured name
The meanest deed that ever on earth was done;

Because, though she be lost, she for whose sake
I would have gone with singing to my tomb,
I think of her … as even the ice-bound lake

These fresh beauties (we can prove)
Once were Virgins sick of love,
Turn'd to Flowers. Still in some
Colours goe, and colours come.