love poems for her

Beautie's no other but a lovely Grace
Of lively colours, flowing from the face.

Why did I wrong my judgment so,
As to affect, where I did know
There was no hold for to be taken,
That which her heart thirsts after most?
If once of it her hope can boast,
Straight by her folly is forsaken.

Thus while I still pursue in vain,
Methinks I turn a child again;
And of my shadow am a-chasing,
For all her favours are to me,
Like apparitions which I see—
Yet ne'er come near th' embracing.

Oft have I wish'd that there had been
Some Almanac whereby to 've seen,

Alas! what Pains, what racking Thoughts he proves,
Who lives remov'd from her he dearest loves!
In cruel Absence doom'd past Joys to mourn,
And think on Hours that will no more return!
Oh! let me ne'er the Pangs of Absence try,
Save me from Absence, Love, or let me die.

Speak not of passion, for my heart is tired,
I should but grieve thee with unheeding ears;
Speak not of hope, nor flash thy soul inspired
In haggard eyes, that do but shine with tears.
Think not I weep because my task is o'er;
This is but weakness—I must rest to-day:
Nay, let me bid farewell and go my way,
Then shall I soon be patient as before.
Yes, thou art grateful, that I nursed thee well;
This is not love, for love comes swift and free:
Yet might I long with one so kind to dwell,
Cared for as in thy need I cared for thee:

My Love is neither young nor old,
Not fiery hot, nor frozen cold;
But fresh and fair as springing briar,
Blooming the fruit of love's desire.

Not snowy white nor rosy red,
But fair enough for shepherd's bed;
And such a Love was never seen
On hill or dale or country green.

Our love is not a fading, earthly flower:
Its wingëd seed dropped down from Paradise,
And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower,
Doth momently to fresher beauty rise:
To us the leafless autumn is not bare,
Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green.
Our summer hearts make summer's fulness, where
No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen:
For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie,
Love,—whose forgetfulness is beauty's death,
Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I
Into the infinite freedom openeth,

Love knows best what to do with love:
As the tree knows best what to do with the fruit,
As the field knows best what to do with the harvest,
As the river knows best what to do with the tides,
As the sun knows best what to do with the light,
As today knows best what to do with tomorrow,
So does love know best what to do with love.
Love knows best what to do with love—
Knows better than the priest, knows better than the laws, what to do with love—
Yes, knows better than parents and counsellors what to do with love:

The tear which thou upbraidest
Thy falsehood taught to flow;
The misery which thou madest
My cheek hath blighted so:
The charms, alas! that won me,
I never can forget,
Although thou hast undone me,
I own I love thee yet.

Go, seek the happier maiden
Who lured thy love from me;
My heart with sorrow laden
Is no more priz'd by thee:
Repeat the vows you made me,
Say, swear thy love is true;
Thy faithless vows betray'd me,
They may betray her too.

But no! may she ne'er languish

Oh, is it not time that the Loved Ones, indeed, should relent,
That the covenant-breakers should turn them to faith and repent?

Do they never hear tidings of him who abideth forlorn,
The fire of chagrin in his breast, since they left him and went?

O would that my people but knew what hath happened to him,
The distraught for their love! They would pity his case and consent.

The Spring-season come is and green once again are the hills:
Yet hear I no warbling: what aileth the songstresses gent?

The nimble fancy of all beauteous Greece,
Fabled young Love an everlasting boy,
ThaTheld of nature an eternal lease,
Of childhood, beauty, innocence, and joy;
A bow he had, a pretty childish toy,
That would not terrify his mother's sparrows,
And 'twas his favourite play to sport his arrows,
Light as the glances of a wood-nymph coy,
O happy error! Musical conceit,
Of old idolatry, and youthful time!
Fit emanation of a happy clime,
Where but to live, to breathe, to be, was sweet,
And Love, tho' even then a little cheat,