love poems for her

These are the little things that stir the heart,
Awaken memories of the yester-years,
Arouse old sorrows with a painful dart,
Becloud the brow and flood the eyes with tears,
Soft, soothing hands that weave love's ancient charm,
And softer voice that croons love's roundelay,
Firm, rounded breasts that crown thy slender form,
Dark, wistful eyes deep with the joy of day.
All but the vision of thy loveliness
That dwells within my heart and will not down,
All must I give for fate is merciless
And garbs my youth in age's sable gown.

Why should I sing when every living voice
Carols in joy for my love's holiday?
Why should I laugh when all the skies rejoice,
Blue-girt and silvered in each sun-kissed ray?
Yea, though the skies, the earth, each God-sent thing,
In flowering field, or glen, or deep-set moor,
Croon softly each to each, still shall I sing,
Tho weak the chords or be the accents poor.
These shall I bring for my love's golden fare,
These shall I give as down my days she trips—
Song-burthened zephyrs for her wind-blown hair,

“What of the old love?” cries my heart to me;
Ah let it die, I say; ah let it die.
Burdened it was with love's satiety,
Weep for it, heart, and give it sigh for sigh.
Keep but its purity to give the new,
Shed all the dross its sorrowed years had borne;
Keep but its joy to cheer the journey thru,
Dry all the tears that cloud my new love's morn.
Give me the passion that the old love brought,
Add to the measure of my new love's fire;
Give me the laughter that the old love wrought,
Add to the wealth of my new love's desire.

Had I but known when first I saw thee there,
Slender of form and happy in thy smile,
Would I have oped my hungry heart to bear
The burden now it carries all the while?
For but a child I lightly held thee then,
Nor cared to wake the starlight in thy eyes,
Nor dreamed this glad unrest. O where and when
Did love first spring from out the bourne of sighs?
Was it the touch of thy soft hand, the chords
Of love were wakened by, or thy warm breath
O'er gladsome smile or tender-spoken words,

The starlight crowns thee when thou standest there,
The shadows clothe thee in their robes of gray,
The night-winds sighing thru thy dusky hair
Echo the music of a vibrant day.
Such is the glory and the sight of thee
That filled my eyes this happy hour gone by,
Such is the glamour and the light of thee,
The lasting burden of love's ancient cry.
And that I love thee so I shall be singing,
(Dark are thy eyes and golden is thy smile),
Carols of joy to distant heavens ringing,
(Pure is thy soul and free thy heart from guile).

There shall be a song for both of us that day,
Though fools say you have long outlived your songs,
And when perhaps because your hair is grey
You go unsung, to whom all praise belongs,
And no men kiss your hands, your fragile hands
Folded like empty shells on lonely sands.
And you that were dawn whereat men shouted once,
Are sunset now, with but one worshipper.
Then to your twilight heart this song shall be
Sweeter than those that did your youth announce,
For your brave, beautiful spirit is lovelier

Who shall to th' elect's charge ought lay,
Since God hath justified?
Who shall condemn by any way,
Since Christ the Surety died?

Who can adjudge their souls to hell,
Since he, who in their stead
Has suffer'd, seal'd their blood so well,
By rising from the dead?

Yea, now he lives and sits above,
Still interceding there.
What can divide us from his love,
Or tempt us to despair?

Shall persecution, or distress,
A separation make?
Shall famine, sword, or nakedness,
Love's bond asunder break?

Gulls on the wind!
Crying! Crying!
Are you the ghosts
Of Erin's dead?
Of the forlorn
Whose days went sighing
Ever for Beauty
That ever fled?
Ever for Light
That never kindled?
Ever for Song
No lips have sung?
Ever for Joy
That ever dwindled?
Ever for Love that stung?

Mother, my love is going hence
In distant lands to be,
But from my mind he cannot go:
Who will bring him back to me?
Who will bring him back to me?

Mother, it came into my heart,
In dream it came to me,
That my dear love was going hence,
To the islands of the sea;
But from my mind he cannot go:
Who will bring him back to me?
Who will bring him back to me?

Mother, it struck upon my heart,
In dream it came to me,
That my dear love was going hence
Unto a far country,
Even in Aragon to dwell;

The love of man for woman and woman for man,
It is not often love …

When the married couple kiss do they drink the music of each other's souls,
Are they moved to unspeakable reverence and adoration,
Would they renounce the world for the good of the beloved?

No, kisses are become to them a routine and a duty:
They find each other's bodies at midnight as they find breakfast in the morning:
And they fill the idle hours with games, shows, rides and liquor,
All to escape from one another …

I have thoughts of a love that might be;