love poems for her

There's a doctor livin' in your town.
There's a lawyer and an Indian, too.
Neither doctor, lawyer, or Indian chief
Could love you any more than I do.
There's a barr'l of fish in the ocean
And a lot of little birds in the blue.
Neither fish nor fowl,
Says the wise old owl,
Could love you any more than I do.
No, no, no, it couldn't be true
That anyone else could love you like I do.

1. I'm gonna warn all the dead-eye dicks
That you're the chick with the slickest tricks,
And ev'ry tick of my ticker ticks

When a smooth wind runs on the far green sea,
This coward thought of mine feels pleasantly,
And lost to poetry itself, can lie
Wrapt in a wistful quietness of eye.
But when the deeps are moved, and the waves come
Shuddering along, and tumbling into foam,
I turn to earth, which trusty seems, and staid,
And love to get into a green wood shade;
In which the pines, although the winds be strong,
Can turn the bluster to a sylvan song
A wretched life a fisherman's must be,
His home a ship, his labour in the sea,

Love, you were dying and one came and drew
The story of your sickness and your pain—
Forlorn you stooped; lover nor loved you knew,
Sucking the salt of sorrow, grain on grain.
You saw my grief for you, thus quite undone
How as at day of judgment you appealed
And sent for an old picture by the sun
As he saw you years ago in a green field—
A vision of your beauty very clear
Of open lip, yet something flashed between
That held and awed and made the face appear
As a shell under water, secret, keen.

Love, thou hast all, for now thou hast mee made
Soe thine, as if for thee I were ordain'd;
Then take thy conquest, nor lett mee bee pain'd
More in thy sunn, when I doe seeke thy shade,

Noe place for help have I left to invade,
That show'de a face wher least ease might bee gain'd;
Yett found I paine increase, and butt obtain'd
That this noe way was to have love allayd,

When hott and thirsty to a well I came
Trusting by that to quench part of my flame,
Butt ther I was by love afresh imbrac'd;

Itt is nott love which you poore fooles do deeme
That doth apeare by fond, and outward showes
Of kissing, toying, or by swearings glose,
O noe thes are farr off from loves esteeme;

Alas they ar nott such that can redeeme
Love lost, or wining keepe those chosen blowes
Though oft with face, and lookes love overthrowse
Yett soe slight conquest doth nott him beeseeme,

'T'is nott a showe of sighes, or teares can prove
Who loves indeed which blasts of fained love
Increase, or dy as favors from them slide;

After long trouble in a taedious way
Of loves unrest, lay'd downe to ease my paine
Hopeing for rest, new torments I did gaine
Possessing mee as if I ought t'obay:

When Fortune came, though blinded, yett did stay,
And in her blesse'd armes did mee inchaine;
I, colde with griefe, thought noe warmth to obtaine
Or to dissolve that ice of joyes decay;

Till, 'rise sayd she, Reward to thee doth send
By mee the servante of true lovers, joy:
Bannish all clowds of doubt, all feares destroy,

If ever love had force in humaine brest?
If ever hee could move in pensive hart?
Or if that hee such powre could butt impart
To breed those flames whose heat brings joys unrest.

Then looke on mee; I ame to thes adrest,
I, ame the soule that feeles the greatest smart;
I, ame that hartles trunk of harts depart
And I, that one, by love, and griefe oprest;

Non ever felt the truth of loves great miss
Of eyes, till I deprived was of bliss;
For had hee seene, hee must have pitty show'd;

Truly poore Night thou wellcome art to mee:
I love thee better in this sad attire
Then that which raiseth some mens phant'sies higher
Like painted outsids which foule inward bee;

I love thy grave, and saddest lookes to see,
Which seems my soule, and dying hart intire,
Like to the ashes of some happy fire
That flam'd in joy, butt quench'd in miserie:

I love thy count'nance, and thy sober pace
Which evenly goes, and as of loving grace
To uss, and mee among the rest oprest

Like to the Indians, scorched with the sunne,
The sunn which they doe as theyr God adore
Soe ame I us'd by love, for ever more
I worship him, less favors have I wunn,

Better are they who thus to blacknes runn,
And soe can only whitenes want deplore
Then I who pale, and white ame with griefs store,
Nor can have hope, butt to see hopes undunn;

Beesids theyr sacrifies receavd's in sight
Of theyr chose sainte: Mine hid as worthles rite;
Grant mee to see wher I my offrings give,

Fairest, and still truest eyes
Can you the lights bee, and the spies
Of my desires?
Can you shine cleere for loves delight,
And yett the breeders bee of spite,
And jealous fires?

Mark what lookes doe you beehold,
Such as by jealousie are told
They want your love:
See how they sparcle in distrust
Which by a heat of thoughts unjust
In them doe move;

Learne to guide your course by art
Chang your eyes into your hart,
And patient bee
Till fruitles jealousie gives leave
By safest absence to receave