love poems for her

Such stolid faces! Do folks sit and stare
Thus always, heavy-eyed?
These women have known love!
Have passed beyond the portals of love's house
And dwelt within, where many things are known,
Yet sit here prim and dull, with no least gleam
Of all the mysteries that love has taught
To give a little radiance to their eyes!

If I had passed that strange, sweet gate, and known
Love's intimate nights and days,
And all the sacred beauties of his house,
Would not my eyes be full of secret lights,

All things are best when first begun,
A love that 's guessed, a race unrun,
And those bright notes that in the brain
Fall brief, beginnings of the rain,
Just two or one
That splash, and to the dust belong,
And might have been a rush of song.

In a deep mountain lake there sailed a swan,
Far, far away from any human soul;
And daily swam with her a speckled trout,
Who only left her when deep thunder rolled—
Sinking far down where that swan could not dive,
So that she tasted bitterest pangs of love
And drooped upon the water like to die.
And when that trout came near with the blue sky
She brightened over the water like a sail
Set for the harbour after a winter gale.
No solitary ship sailing a land-locked sea
With her own shadow, and no lonely cloud

When Beauty fills the lover's eyes,
And lives like doubtful weather,
Her bosom seems to sleep with love;
They lie like birds together.

Love finds them angels ready made,
So beautiful and blooming;
But Time comes in, though half afraid,
And rudely calls them woman.

Time, like a robber, every year
Takes all the fame he gives;
While Beauty only goes away,
And Virtue only lives.

Love in a showre of Blossomes came
Down, and halfe drown'd me with the same:
The Blooms that fell were white and red;
But with such sweets commingled,
As whether (this) I cannot tell
My sight was pleas'd more, or my smell:
But true it was, as I rowl'd there,
Without a thought of hurt, or feare;
Love turn'd himselfe into a Bee,
And with his Javelin wounded me:
From which mishap this use I make,
Where most sweets are, there lyes a Snake.
Kisses and Favours are sweet things;
But Those have thorns, and These have stings.

Instead of Orient Pearls, of Jet,
I sent my Love a Karkanet:
About her spotlesse neck she knit
The lace, to honour me, or it:
Then think how wrapt was I to see
My Jet t'enthrall such Ivorie.

Love love begets, then never be
Unsoft to him who's smooth to thee.
Tygers and Beares (I've heard some say)
For profer'd love will love repay:
None are so harsh, but if they find
Softnesse in others, will be kind;
Affection will affection move,
Then you must like, because I love.

For Syrian fields preparing,
Dunois the young and bold,
While trumpet-calls were blaring
And drums impatient rolled,
Two boons the best and rarest
At Mary's shrine implored:
“To love the maiden fairest,
To bear the bravest sword!”

True faith outvalues daring;
Dunois was sword and shield,
His liege's banner bearing
On many a bloody field.
Still faithful, fearless, prayed he,
In camp or march or fight:
“Be mine the fairest lady,
Be hers the bravest knight!”

“And now we are victorious,

Come , my Corinna, let us try
Which loves you best, of you, and I;
I know you oft have in your glasse,
Seene the faint shaddow of your face,
And, consequently, then became
A wond'ringe lover as I am;
Though not so great a one, for what
You saw, was but a glimpse of that
So sweet, so charminge Majestie,
Which I in its full luster see:
But, if you then had gaz'd upon
Your selfe, as your reflection,
And seene those eys for which I dye,
Perhapps you'd beene as sick, as I.
Thus, Sweetest, then it is confest!

On me to rest, my bird, my bird:
The swaying branches of my heart
Are blown by every wind toward
The home whereto their wings depart.

Build not your nest, my bird, on me;
I know no peace but ever sway:
O lovely bird, be free, be free,
On the wild music of the day.

But sometimes when your wings would rest,
And winds are laid on quiet eves:
Come, I will bear you breast to breast,
And lap you close with loving leaves.