love poems for her

An artist painted Time and Love;
Time with two pinions spread above,
And Love without a feather;
Sir Harry patronized the plan,
And soon Sir Hal and Lady Ann
In wedlock came together.

Copies of each the dame bespoke:
The artist, ere he drew a stroke,
Reversed his old opinions,
And straightway to the fair one brings
Time in his turn devoid of wings,
And Cupid with two pinions.

“What blunder's this?” the lady cries.
“No blunder, Madam,” he replies,
“I hope I'm not so stupid.

In that country it happening that the King
Came now that way victorious from battle,
Where he had slain some folk and stolen their cattle,
His chamberlain told Sir Paul an excellent thing
To do: Make ready with feast and furnishing
To lodge the King three days; and it was good
If the King favoured his bed and relished his food,
For service helps a man in the sight of the King.

Now purple and linen, heifers, poultry, swine,
Paul loved not for themselves, but he loved yet
As he hated his belly empty and his skin wet;

Sweet Saint, thou better canst declare to me
What pleasure is obtained by heavenly love,
Than they which other loves did never prove,
Or which in sex are differing from thee;
For like a woman-spouse my soul shall be,
Whom sinful passions once to lust did move
And since betrothed to God's Son above
Should be enamoured with His Deity.
My body is the garment of my spright
While as the daytime of my life doth last,
When death shall bring the night of my delight
My soul unclothed shall rest from labours past:

I wandered far in life's stern way
To seek the good of every day;
But fell among the thieves of Thane,
Who tried to rob my honest name.

I found no brotherhood in man;
But here and there a vicious clan;
No truth, no love, no justice find
Their way into these groups unkind.

But you have been a light to me,
A fond and dear, and true Amie;
So what care I for falsest friend,
When on your love I can depend.

To steal one's wealth is always trash,
O'er which some men are ne'er abash;

Summer wanes—I saw a swallow flying
Southward in the search of love and light.
Sweetheart, hearken how the wind is sighing,
Ever after blossom cometh blight.

Summer wanes—I found a lily lying
Withered by the frost of yesternight.
Sweetheart mine, the roses are a-dying,
Ever after blossom cometh blight.

Summer wanes—my lips are weary crying,
“Love me a little when the sun is bright.”
Even as I plead the echoes are replying,
“Ever after blossom cometh blight.”

Summer wanes—no longer, fate defying,

Shall I set any blessing this side heaven
Against thy love for me—the light that shows
All other joy, the light whereby it grows?
Yes, one boon richer than thy love is given—
The right to love thee! If thy strength of wing
Can bear me with thee to thy luminous sphere
Of duty, take me; but I would not cling
With an encumbering clasp to keep thee here.
'Tis dear to think thee of myself a part;
More dear, though lost, to know thee what thou art:
And if, being such, thou vanish from my eyes,
I, nursing thoughts of thee, will wait the day

Wounded with grief, I weep, and sigh, and plain;
Yet neither plaints, nor sighs, nor tears do good,
But all in vain I strive against the flood,
Gaining but grief for grief, and pain for pain.
Yet though in vain my tears my cheeks distain,
Leaving engraven sorrow where they stood;
And though my sighs consuming up my blood,
For love deserved, reap undeserved disdain;
And though in vain I know I beg remorse
At your remorseless heart, more hard than steel;
Yet such, alas, such is your beauty's force,

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! Oh ye
Who north or south, on east or western land,
Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God
For God; Oh ye who in eternal youth
Speak with a living and creative flood
This universal English, and do stand
Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand
Heroic utterance—parted, yet a whole,
Far, yet unsevered,—children brave and free
Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be
Lords of an Empire wide as Shakespeare's soul,

[HE] I have a song to sing, O!
[SHE] Sing me your song, O!
[HE] It is sung to the moon
By a love-lorn loon,
Who fled from the mocking throng, O!
It's the song of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

[SHE] I have a song to sing, O!
[HE] Sing me your song, O!

I THOUGHT our love at full, but I did err;
Joy's wreath drooped o'er mine eyes; I could not see
That sorrow in our happy world must be
Love's deepest spokesman and interpreter:
But, as a mother feels her child first stir
Under her heart, so felt I instantly
Deep in my soul another bond to thee
Thrill with that life we saw depart from her;
O mother of our angel child! twice dear!
Death knits as well as parts, and still, I wis,
Her tender radiance shall infold us here,
Even as the light, borne up by inward bliss,