love poems for her

I LOOKED from out my window once
And saw Love standing there;
No cloak had he to cover him,
His dimpled feet were bare,
And fast and chill the snowflakes fell
On his ambrosial hair.

He lifted up to mine a face
Filled with celestial light;
Fond, fond with pity grew my heart
To see his hapless plight,
And down I sped to offer him
Warm shelter for the night:—

“Come in, come in, thou tender child,
A wanderer from thine own!
Hath all the world abandoned thee,
That thou art thus alone?

One night upon mine ancient enemy
I closed my door,
And lo! that night came Love in search of me—
Love I had hungered for—
And finding my door closed, went on his way,
And came no more.

Pray you take counsel of this penitent,
And learn thereof:
Set your door wide whatever guests be sent,
Your graciousness to prove;
Better to let in many enemies
Than bar out Love.

I WHO yesterday was young,
Now am old instead;
All of youth a glad song sung,
All a story said.
It was love who sang the song,
Love the story told.
Ah, but we remember long,
We, grown old.

Only yesterday I quaffed
Life's enkindling wine;
Only yesterday I laughed
Youth's light laugh divine.
It was love who played the host,
Brimmed the cup of gold.
Ah, but we remember most,
We, grown old.

Only yesterday my eyes
Held Love's marvelings;
Nay, it is not Time that flies—

She sends her love! My heart prepare
To cleave the last, thin band of air
Where slothful spirits hesitate
And sluggish souls deliberate,—
Then back to sordid earth repair.

We'll leave this atmosphere of care
And zones of ether penetrate—
For doth the word not clearly state,
“She sends her love”?

Yea! Jubilant our path shall fare
To that far Aiden none may dare,
Save those, the passing fortunate,
To whom—O rare and charming fate—
She sends her love!

You never saw so wee a child,
Like changeling, like elf,
You never dreamed so slight a thing
As her grown self.

She wasn't like Winifred,
Not much like Anne,
She was more like Kenneth,
Still more like Dan.

But, oh, she was woman child.
And doll-toy
Would make her eyes bluer,
And stain her cheeks with joy.

Oh, I can tell you
That her heart was good,
She loved all the flowers,
Back in the wood.

She loved the wood-flowers,
And in their wreaths dressed,—

May is here, now May is here,
May is here and all aflower,
May with its roses laden,
And many a fair maiden,
May is here and all aflower;
May with its wealth of flowers,
And with love's soft hours,
May is here and all aflower.

But once beheld by any man, no more;
And then with such wild tumult in his brain
He may not recollect the look it wore,
Or if 'twas pleasure that he felt, or pain,
When those strange eyes sent fire to his heart's core.

But who can grasp the maze of sad delight
That music weaves, its memory dying never?
And who can read the Face of Love aright,
With all its mystic meanings, shifting ever,
That stir life's deepest springs, yet cheat the sight?

A face of godlike glory, such as men

I SING to you
A song of Spring,
For Youth and Spring go well together,
A song of soft and sunny weather,
A song of birds upon the wing,
A song of green against the blue,
This is the wayward song I sing
To you.

I sing to you
A song of Hope,
For surely Hope is Youth's first lover,
And all his rainbows arch above her,
And all his dreams a shining rope
Of sun and mist, of light and dew,
Are wound about her willing feet,
And all his ways are wild and sweet.
I sing a song of Hope
To you.

Queen-Beauty of the Night—pale and alone—
Eye not so coldly Love's brief happiness;
But look as once when thou didst leave thy throne,
In garb and gait a sylvan hunteress,
And with bright, buskined limbs, through dew and flowers,
Lightly, on sprightly feet and agile, bounded,
With fawn-like leaps, among the Latmian bowers;
While the wide dome of farthest heaven resounded
With the shrill shouts of thee and thy nymph-rovers,
When the hard chace of victory was won,
And changed Actæon by his hounds was torn.

'Tis sweet, so sweet, when work is o'er,
At eve, to hear the voice of love
Shout welcome from the cottage door,
Embowered on the hill above.

From furrowed field, where all the day
You toil and sweat for little bread,
'Tis sweet to see the child at play
Drop toys and come with arms outspread.

'Tis sweet, so sweet, when work is o'er,
At eve, to hear the voice of love
Shout welcome from the cottage door,
Embowered on the hill above.

From furrowed field, where all the day