love poems for her

Beyond the north wind lay the land of old
Where men dwelt blithe and blameless, clothed and fed
With joy's bright raiment and with love's sweet bread,
The whitest flock of earth's maternal fold.
None there might wear about his brows enrolled
A light of lovelier fame than rings your head,
Whose lovesome love of children and the dead
All men give thanks for: I far off behold
A dear dead hand that links us, and a light
The blithest and benignest of the night,
The night of death's sweet sleep, wherein may be

Flowers hast thou in thyself, and foliage,
And what is good, and what is glad to see;
The sun is not so bright as thy visàge;
All is stark naught when one hath looked on thee;
There is not such a beautiful personage
Anywhere on the green earth verily;
If one fear love, thy bearing sweet and sage
Comforteth him, and no more fear hath he.
Thy lady friends and maidens ministering
Are all, for love of thee, much to my taste:
And much I pray them that in everything
They honour thee even as thou meritest,

Oh ! I vu'st know'd o' my true love,
As the bright moon up above,
Though her brightness wer my pleasure,
She wer heedless o' my love.
Tho' 'twer all gaÿ to my eyes,
Where her feäir feäce did arise,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,
Than the high moon in the skies.

Oh! I vu'st heärd her a-zingèn,
As a sweet bird on a tree,
Though her zingèn wer my pleasure,
'Twer noo zong she zung to me.
Though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh,
Meäde my wild heart to beat high,
She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,

Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song:
Love that is too hot and strong
Burneth soon to waste.
I am with little well content,
And a little from thee sent
Is enough, with true intent,
To be steadfast friend.
Love me little, love me long,
Is the burden of my song.

Say thou lov'st me while thou live,
I to thee my love will give,
Never dreaming to deceive
While that life endures:
Nay, and after death in sooth,
I to thee will keep my truth,
As now when in my May of youth,

1. Wide open are Thy hands, Paying with more than gold
2. Wide open are Thine arms, A fallen world to embrace;
The awful debt of guilty men, Forever and of old.
To take to love and endless rest. Our whole forsaken race.
Ah, let me grasp those hands, That we may never part,
Lord, I am sad and poor, But boundless is Thy grace;
And let the power of their blood Sustain my fainting heart.
Give me the soultransforming joy For which I seek Thy face.

3. Draw all my mind and heart
Up to Thy throne on high,
And let Thy sacred Cross exalt

My love is like the lily flower
That blooms upon the lea:
I wadna gie ae blink o' her
For a' the maids I see.

Her voice is like the bonnie bird's,
That warbles 'mang the bow'rs,
Her breath is like the hawthorn when
It's wat wi' morning show'rs.

And frae the gowans o' the glen
She's caught her modest grace,
And a' the blushes o' the rose
Hae leapt into her face.

She bears aboot, I kenna hoo,
The joy o' simmer days,
The voice o' streams, and happy dreams
Amang the broomy braes.

I am true to my lord.
O my companions, there is nothing to be ashamed of now,
Since I have been seen dancing openly.

In the day I have no hunger.
I am always restless and sleep does not come in the night.
Leaving troubles behind, I shall go to the other side,
Because hidden knowledge has taken hold of me.

All my relations have come and surrounded me like bees.
But Mira is the servant of her beloved, the Mountain-holder.
And she cares not though the people mock her.

Her hazel eyes are deep
As the fathomless eyes of Sleep,—
Deep, deep—
And will no love declare,
And will no sorrow share,
Nor laugh, nor weep.
Warm tears may hide behind
The eyelids cold;
And treasure undivined,
For Love to find,
The depths may hold:
But daring souls who dive
Into the waters brown
To seek the secrets there,
Sink and drown,
Or else are chained alive
A thousand fathoms down.

Fate, with devoted and incessant care,
Has showered grotesqueness round us day by day.
If we turn grave, a hurdy-gurdy's air
Is sure to rasp across the words we say.
If we stand tense on brink of perilous choices,
'Tis never where Miltonic headlands loom,
But mid the sound of comic-opera voices
Or the cheap blaze of some hair-dresser's room.
Heaven knows what moonlit turrets, hazed in bliss,
Saw Launcelot and night and Guinevere!
I only know our first impassioned kiss
Was in your cellar, rummaging for beer. …

Love, that makes others speak and write,
Makes both my Tongue and Pen lie still;
Robs me of Speech and Fancy quite,
Whilst it with Cares my Brain does fill.
Thus I, by Love, for Love am made unfit,
And what shou'd give me Courage lessens it.

Struck Dumb, when I would most express,
Most modest, when I most should dare;
Most awkard is my dull Address,
When best I would my Flame declare:
Unhappy Bashfulness, that do'st betray
Thy Master's Passion, and his Bliss delay!

Yet since Respect bespeaks my Flame,