love poems for her

A word was spoken—a breath of frost
Struck love with an icy chill;
Two hearts went limping, joy was lost
And wandered lone on a tempest hill.
The flowers of the soul their petals shed;
Music was silent and art fell dead.

COME , Holy Spirit! Come, enflame
Our lukewarm Hearts with sacred Fire:
May all our Passions, to Thy Name,
In Transports most refin'd, aspire.

May Love sublime our Hearts possess,
From every selfish Mixture free,
Fir'd with the Charms of Holiness,
The Beauty of Divinity.

We see the Beauty of Thy Grace,
That saves rebellious Worms from Hell:
But ah! the Charms of Holiness
We dimly see, and faintly feel.

Selfish and mercenary Views
Are with our purest Passions mixt:
A nobler Passion, Oh! infuse,

Elvira, by love's grace
There goeth before you
A clear radiance
Which maketh all vain souls
Candles when noon is.

The loud clangor of pretenders
Melteth before you
Like the roll of carts passing,
But you come silently
And homage is given.

Now the little by-path
Which leadeth to love
Is again joyful with its many;
And the great highway
From love
Is without passers.

Botta! the Muse of History with thy pen
Sheds beauty, light, and wisdom on her pages,
Reviving thus, even in our days again,
Part of the Roman, Greek and Tuscan sages;
Their love of freedom, and their skill in men—
Hatred of force and fraud—the lore of ages—
With style's best virtue graced—most lovely when
Truth scorns both Demagogue's and Tyrant's wages.
There is a fascination in thy story
Beyond mere music from a Syren's tongue,
As though exulting in her ancient glory
Above the tale entranced, Ausonia hung,

Poor bleeding hearts though to your garden came,
The dark-robed angel and your bud he called,
Trust Him who sent him—Love is still His name,
Although your flow'ret was so roughly pulled.

Reason would question, where Lord is the love?
Seeing yon prattler on her little bed,
All beauteous and gentle as a dove,
Tossing in anguish her bright golden head.

Faith sees the hieroglyphics, writ by thee
Though it can't read them, yet it knows them right,
We go to Calvary, and there we see,

Now the lusty Spring is seen,
Golden yellow, gaudy Blew,
Daintily invite the view.
Everywhere, on every Green,
Roses blushing as they blow,
And inticing men to pull,
Lillies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines of sweet honey full,
All Love's Emblems and all cry,
Ladies, if not pluckt we dye,
Yet the lusty Spring hath staid,
Blushing red and purest white,
Daintily to love invite,
Every Woman, every Maid,
Cherries kissing as they grow;
And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,

Hear, ye ladies that despise,
What the mighty Love has done;
Fear examples, and be wise:
Fair Calisto was a nun;
Leda, sailing on the stream
To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accouonting but a dream,
Doted on a silver swan;
Danaë, in a brazen tower,
Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear, ye ladies that are coy,
What the mighty Love can do;
Fear the fierceness of the boy:
The chaste moon he makes to woo;
Vesta, kindling holy fires,
Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,

This was the day I died, when all Life's sun
Was blotted out in dark and dreadful night.
And I, who lived and laughed and loved the light,
In one brief moment knew my race was run;
Knew that the glory of my days was done,
Because no more with happy, human sight
In your dear eyes could I read love aright,
No more could feel how closely we were one,
As we had been for all the perfect years
From boyhood till you came to man's estate;
My bliss is bartered now for blinding tears.
So young to die!—And Joy with step elate

‘W HY do you so clasp me,
And draw me to your knee?
Forsooth, you do but chafe me,
I pray you let me be:
I will but be loved now and then
When it liketh me!’

So I heard a young child,
A thwart child, a young child
Rebellious against love's arms,
Make its peevish cry.

To the tender God I turn:—
‘Pardon, Love most High!
For I think those arms were even Thine,
And that child even I.’

All lovely things will have an ending,
All lovely things will fade and die,
And youth, that's now so bravely spending,
Will beg a penny by and by.

Fine ladies all are soon forgotten,
And goldenrod is dust when dead,
The sweetest flesh and flowers are rotten
And cobwebs tent the brightest head.

Come back, true love! Sweet youth, return!—
But time goes on, and will, unheeding,
Though hands will reach, and eyes will yearn,
And the wild days set true hearts bleeding.

Come back, true love! Sweet youth, remain!—