love poems for her

The hart he loves the high wood,
The hare she loves the hill;
The knight he loves his bright sword,
The lady loves her will.

Thee have I sought, divine Humility,
—Within, without!
And Science did I take as guide to thee;
—She showed me Doubt.

Then did I turn to Art: “Be thou my friend,
—My pride destroy.”
She sang of Glory that should never end
—And taught me Joy.

“Nature, be thou my monitress!” I cried
—In accents clear.
She shook the very base of human pride,
—And whispered, “Fear.”

Lastly of Love did I beseech this grace,
—To come to thee;
Love turned on me a dark and dreadful face,
—'Twas Jealousy.

Not mine from thee, loved heart, to feel such tide
As this mine own doth pour thee;
Still shall I not go all unsatisfied:
Enough that I adore thee.

And if thou never wakest to my song,
Not weakly shall it falter;
Proudly I pace Love's lonely courts along
Unto their inmost altar.

Ah, some day, if, within thy pleasant sleep,
Faint echoes of me find thee,
White heart, may dreams be not too fair or deep
Or soothing to unbind thee!

Perchance even then, responding to that sound,

Love was a flow'r that craved the tenderest care,
Sweet, fragile Love that tended grows more fair,
A petalled fragrance dreamy like dim skies
Illumining life more than the bright sunrise.
A shimmering blossom full of golden dower,
Love was a flower.

Cold sea-winds blew along the amber shore
Where white flow'rs glisten'd on the bank no more …
For withered buds bent on a barren bough,
Our poor, untended Love has perished now.
'Twas born eternal, but it lived an hour,
Love was a flower.

in summer let's buy blue lampshades
to see your and our lovely fingers
in the star city is an angel with seashell fingernails
a selfish, shabby angel
that's you
in the shade of waves of acacia leaves
a true manicure is performed
but.

ah, touch the nails and you'll get scarred.

this was also a simple, pencil-sketched angel.

Heart ! my heart! what means this feeling?
What oppresseth thee so sore?
What strange life is o'er me stealing!
I acknowledge thee no more.
Fled is all that gave thee gladness,
Fled the cause of all thy sadness,
Fled thy peace, thine industry—
Ah, why suffer it to be?

Say, do beauty's graces youthful,
Does this form so fair and bright,
Does this gaze, so kind, so truthful,
Chain thee with unceasing might?
Would I tear me from her boldly,
Courage take, and fly her coldly,
Back to her I'm forthwith led

I hoped that he would love me,
And he has kissed my mouth,
But I am like a stricken bird
That cannot reach the south.

For though I know he loves me,
To-night my heart is sad;
His kiss was not so wonderful
As all the dreams I had.

LOVE-MAKING is like haymaking, soon over,
And both are mutable throughout their season.
Haymaker! hear me; thou too hear me, lover,
Nor scorn experience nor be deaf to reason.
Be quick at work; the sunny hours won't last,
And storms may come before they half are past.

Where all is black,
Love is the light for creatures looking in
Behind her red rose blush and lily skin;
A lamp that yet we lack.

Fast-anchor'd eternal O love! O woman I love!
O bride! O wife! more resistless than I can tell, the thought of you!
Then separate, as disembodied or another born,
Ethereal, the last athletic reality, my consolation,
I ascend, I float in the regions of your love O man,
O sharer of my roving life.