love poems for her

You cannot choose but love, lad,
From dawn till twilight dreary;
You cannot choose but love, lad,
Though love grows weary, weary.

For, lad, an if you love not,
You'd best have slept unwaking;
But, O, an if you love, lad,
Your heart is breaking, breaking.

Though friends and lovers only
Fill life with joyous breath,
Yet friend or lover only
Can make you pray for death.

Throw open wide your heart then,
Love's road-house for a mile!
And if one turns to leave you
Or stab you—smile, lad, smile.

O, no!—To live when joy was dead,
To go with one, lone, pining thought,
To mournful love her being wed,
Feeling what death had wrought;
To live the child of woe, nor shed a tear,
Bear kindness, and yet share not joy or fear;

She's sleeping in her silent cave,
Nor hears the loud, stern roar above,
Nor strife of man on land or wave.
Young thing! her home of love
She soon has reached! Fair, unpolluted thing!
They harmed her not!—Was dying suffering?

Pale little princess passionate and shy,
With delicate small hands and heavy hair,
A simple child-like creature wild and fair,
Yet shadowed by a haunting mystery.
Born to, I know not what, high destiny,
And driven out to darkness and despair,
To see at last a love divine and rare
Slain by a jealous husband … and to die!

How listlessly you turned from love and tears,
Yet looking in the eyes of Death you smiled
And stretched out wistful arms, as though once more
Your Pelleas had entered at the door.

Sweet Love is dead,—yes, dead and laid to rest.
Ah, dainty was the fabric of his shroud,
Cut from the pearly edges of a cloud.
They placed a fragrant lily on his breast,
And all the souls his visitings had blest
Followed him to the grave with heads low bowed,
Though there were many great, and good, and proud.
And those by fame and fortune oft caressed.
Poor Love! he could not live when golden dross
Bought the warm kisses that were once his due,
Paid for the tender clasp of clinging hands,

He fell for Spain,—her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
Away from strife and fear,
And wait amid her sorrows till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.

Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride!
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride;
He cannot hear thy wail,
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound:
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.

When the nightingale in the leaves
Gives, seeks, and takes love,
And happily begins his song,
And gazes often at his mate,
And the streams are clear and the meadows fair,
Because of the new pleasure which prevails,
A great joy settles in my heart.

I am eager for a love affair—
For I know no more worthy enjoyment—
Which I pray for and desire, and it would be good
If she made me a gift of love;
For she has a full body, delicate and fair,
With nothing that could be unbecoming,
And her good, pleasurable love.

Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy, what I must commend!
But since 't is nature's law, in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and with'ring age submit,
With less regret those laurels I resign,
Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
With better grace an ancient chief may yield
The long contended honors of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Tho' yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise;

Oh my love's like the red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
My love's like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonny lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I can love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love,
Oh fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my love,