love poems for her

Painter , thou who dost excel
All others in the Cyprian Isle,
Or Paphos, for thy dextrous skill,
Paint me absent Iris now.
Thou hast not seen her, thou wilt say,
What then, the better its for thee;
I'll in few words instruct thee what to do,
First mix the lilies and the rose,
Love's wanton looks and smiles;
But why each thing, for thou canst well
Of Venus Iris make,
And thou can make the traits so like
None shall know the mistake;
And of that Iris thou again
Can make the lovely Paphian queen.

Into the golden vessel of great song
Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast
Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;
Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongue
Of all the world: the churning blood, the long
Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed
Sharply together upon the escaping guest,
The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.
Longing alone is singer to the lute;
Let still on nettles in the open sigh
The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute
As any man, and love be far and high,

Sin and Death, those sisters two,
Two, two,
Sat together while dawned the morning.
Sister, marry! Your house will do,
Do, do,
For me, too, was Death's warning.

Sin was wedded, and Death was pleased,
Pleased, pleased,
Danced about them the day they married;
Night came on, she the bridegroom seized,
Seized, seized,
And away with her carried.

Sin soon wakened alone to weep,
Weep, weep.
Death sat near in the dawn of morning:
Him you love, I love too and keep,
Keep, keep.

There was love, and there was beauty,
In the face upturned to me;
And her hair was long and golden,
Soft to touch and good to see;
Her blue eyes were full of laughter
As they burned into my own,
Glowing like a priceless diamond—
Fascinating as that stone.

What is life but love, devotion!—
What is woman but a song—
But a lyric caught from Nature—
But an echo sounding long—
Filling all the earth with gladness—
Filling all the earth with madness—
What is woman but a song!

Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing!
Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing:
Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing—
Low, lute, low!
Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken;
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken;
Low, my lute! Oh low, my lute! we fade and are forsaken—
Low, dear lute, low!

Love , a thousand sweets distilling,
And with nectar bosoms filling,
Charm all eyes that none may find us,
Be above, before, behind us;
And, while we thy pleasures taste,
Enforce time itself to stay,
And by forelock hold him fast
Lest occasion slip away.

I was alone, for those I loved
Were far away from me;
The sun shone on the withered grass,
The wind blew fresh and free.

Was it the smile of early spring
That made my bosom glow?
'Twas sweet; but neither sun nor wind
Could cheer my spirit so.

Was it some feeling of delight,
All vague and undefined?
No; 'twas a rapture sweet and strong,
Expanding in the mind.

Was it a sanguine view of life,
And all its transient bliss,
A hope of bright prosperity?
Oh, no! it was not this.

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers:
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.

The little rift within the lover's lute
Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,
That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

It is not worth the keeping: let it go:
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
And trust me not at all or all in all.

W ACHUSETT thrilled
To its frostiest veins
At the step of its lover.

“Now am I repaid,”
It said, “for all
My lonely watch
Since the dawn of time.
He comes at last;
With loving foot he presses
My granite bosom;
He breathes my air,
Which I have made sweet for him
With starry dew,
And he will bear away
My image in his heart
To inspire and solace
Through him the world.
He loves me;
Therefore he knows me,
Both What I am and Why.”

Is not the picture strangely like?
Doesn't the very bowing strike?
Can any art of love in fashion
Express a more prevailing passion?
That air—that sticking to her side—
That deference, ill-concealing pride,—
That seeming consciousness of coat,
And repetition of one note,—
Ducking and tossing back his head,
As if at every bow he said,
‘Madam, by God’,—or ‘Strike me dead’.

And then the lady! look at her:
What bridling sense of character!
How she declines, and seems to go,
Yet still endures him to and fro;