love poems for her

A SAFFRON crescent in an opal sky
He watched—while she into her wine-dark hair
Braided white violets—whiter than despair,
And half as sweet as love. There fluttered by
Wings of the merle, gay caroller, who sleeps
Upon a beechen bough in the far forest deeps.

Love which is greater than oneself is like
The glow-worm,
A thing which is impossible to hide
Even though you wrap it up.

It was the hour of dew and light;
In heaven a conflagration cold
Of roses burned, instead of clouds;
There was a rain of pearls and gold.

Then deep within a flowering grove
I saw thee, love, reclined at ease,
And thou wast languishing and pale,
And sighing like a summer breeze,

Plucking a blossom's leaves apart
With fingers fair as lilies are;
Thine eyes, the temples of love's fire,
Were fixed upon the heavens afar.

I marvelled that thy fingers soft,
Wherein the haughty rose was pressed,

If I were a rich man, would you smile at me?
Can your bosom that swells your blouse so firmly be bought
And all the smooth warmth of your nakedness?
You are straight and beautiful,
Your hair is black and you have slender ankles.
I have seen the bloom and colour of your face on peaches;
I have felt the grace of your walk in Grecian statues;
And, as you go, you look back over your shoulder sideways;
Coquette! you were born in the age that bore me,
And almost I love you, my dark goddess!

But if I came to you and said to you, I am rich;

I love not her, however, fair,
With vanity who fir'd,
Shows in her dress, her words, her air,
The wish to be admir'd.

But her I love, of modest mien,
Who no vain passion knows,
Who never wishes to be seen,
Or seen, with blushes glows.

Not her, who, with obtrusive air,
Courts all who're passing by;
But her, who beauty makes her care,
To please her lover's eye.

In vain she seeks the breast to move,
Who trusts to beauty's art;
Give me, if you would have me love,
A woman with a heart.

Not of your voice, now still, that used to sing,
I think,—now all your spirit's house lies dead—
Not of your little, lovely, eager head:
I think more of your hands than anything.…
Not of your face, sweet like a star, now lying
Immobile, nor those lips, no more replying
With unexpectedness,—those eyes, whence came
An eager dancing life could never tame.…
Oh, no, it is those little, lovely hands
That bring down all my hopes like sliding sands,
Those little, lovely hands, all arts in one,
In which the soul of motion lies undone.…

“There's no such thing as love.” So said
A flippant sneerer whom I met one day;—
And yet a child sat at her feet and played,
And a sweet babe upon her bosom lay.

Greatly I wondered. “No such thing as love?
Then what are these?” Her thin lip curled.
“These? These are incidents. Your words but prove
Your ignorance. You do not know the world.

“You wonder why I wed?” Still curled her lip;
Still flushed her dark eye with a bitter scorn:—
“Why, I am a woman—so obey the whip
That swings it lash above all women born.

Friend of my later years, whose tender love
Has filled my home with blossoms, sweet though late,
Whose noble heart my spirit must approve,
As Duty's path thou tread'st with willing feet:
Thy welcome service, at Love's bidding mine,
As these my rhythmic waifs are gathered now,
Calls for a grateful tribute, and I twine
This simple wreath, dear N ELLIE , for thy brow.
Soul-sister! may the waiting years for thee
Pour out a largess of such holy joy
That earth shall seem the porch of heaven to be,

Love will ever find a way
To turn the darkest night to day:
Out of chaos and mischance,
And every wicked circumstance,
'Twill build itself a home again
Within the hearts of erring men;
But hell is made by its inhabitants

He loved and worshipped all that's fair,
In wondrous ocean, earth, and air;
The grand, the lovely, and the rare,
To him were sacred ever;
The thousand hues that summer brings,
The gorgeous glow that sunset flings—
The source whence every beauty springs—
Can art restore? Oh, never!

He loved the music of the bowers—
He loved the freshness of the showers—
He loved the odours of the flowers
With passion deep and holy;
All that the Poet's song hath stored—
All that the minstrel's strains afford,