love poems for her

The lotus-blossom trembles
At the Sun's resplendent light,
And waits with drooping forehead
In dreams the coming night.

The moon he is her leman,
And wakes her from her dreams;
Her chaste flower-face unveiling,
To him, she meets his beams.

She beams and glows and glimmers,
Her upward gaze she strains,
Pours forth her tears and perfume
Of Love, and Love's sweet pains.

On wings of song I'd bear thee
Away whom I love so well;
Away to the Ganges' prairie;
I know where 'tis fair to dwell.

There in the still noon is sleeping
A gorgeous-flowered grove;
The lotus-flowers are keeping
Watch for the sister they love.

The violets prattle and flutter,
And gaze at the stars above;
In secret the roses utter
Their fragrant stories of love.

Lithe, gentle gazelles come bounding
Nearer to list to the rose;
Afar you may hear resounding,
The Sacred Stream as it flows.

The rose and the lily, the dove and the sun,
With a passionate love I once loved every one.
I love them no more—but I love the completest,
The neatest and meetest, discreetest and sweetest.
She herself is love's well-spring, and other there's none,
For she's rose and she's lily, she's dove and she's sun.

Out of my tears many flowers
In rarest bloom arise,
And the songs of a chorus of nightingales
Re-echo out of my sighs.

And little one, if thou wilt love me,
Thine all the flowers shall be;
And the nightingale at thy window
Shall carol his blithest for thee.

This reward have I for my love and pain:
To feel through pain the sweet love deeper grow;
The more I sacrifice, the more to know
Of the pure secrets of love's inner fane.
Yes, this is great and worth sharp pangs,—to gain
Exquisite tender priceless knowledge so
Of how the passionate heart of Love can glow
Immortally, while mortal we remain.

To feel my love wax deeper day by day:
This is love's tender and divine reward;
To find that perfect love no boundary keeps,
But ever with inevitable sword

Because my soul is strong, but thine is as a flower;
Because I am a cloud that stoops above thy bower
With thunder in its song:
Because thou art so sweet, and full of beauty gracious;
Because my soul is large, and through its vistas spacious
Roam dreams of pain all day and all night long:

Because we are alike in nothing, and can never
Be more like than the flower and cloud that shields for ever
The simple flower and fair:
Because the bitter god, the singing god Apollo,
Is ever unto me the one god whom I follow,

What I would ask thee is to let me give—
Give love, give help, give perfect tenderness.
I ask no flower: I ask no soft caress:
But only just to worship while I live.
Love's dreams alas! are often fugitive:
Only the love whose chief joy is to bless
Outlasts life's anguish and its stormy stress;
Love that bestows, not hoping to receive.

Let me love so. And let me sometimes see
Thy face.—God sets ten million stars each night
Upon the brow of heaven to give man light;
Do thou my sweet eternal star-love be:

If ever comes the day when thou dost fail
My heart's deep inner truth to understand,—
If sorrow invades us,—if this songful land
Be ever darkened and love's skies turn pale
While summer's bright leaves tremble at the gale,—
Remember then—remember evermore—
I loved thee, loved thee, loved thee; through the roar
Of evil wintry winds, let that wild wail
“I loved thee, loved thee, loved thee,” reach thine ear.
By heaven, by God, if all else were untrue,—
If all the stars in heaven's height quaked for fear

Thou hast so little share or part in me
And that, God knows, is why I love thee so!
Just as the great white waves that shoreward go
After their journey o'er the bitter sea
Love past all speech the emerald-shining lea
And the blue river-waves that towards them flow,—
And love beyond all human words the glow
Of pink cliff-thyme, and singing of the bee.

Thou art the river bringing to the deep
Thoughts of the flowers that by its banks are seen,
Woven in white amid the entangled green,—

The Summer fluttered south, and gathered all its flowers
From English woods and hills, and English lanes and bowers;
Soft leaves from every tree:
All these it gathered up, bright fragrant laughing legions,
And sought with footstep glad the southern stormless regions,—
But on a sudden paused and looked for thee.

Love saw sweet rest at last spread meadowlike before him
And felt the robe of death fall soft and dewlike o'er him
And knew what peace may be
Within the arms of death; but, as he sighed for pleasure