love poems

'Tis not how witty, nor how free,
Nor yet how beautifull she be,
But how much kinde and true to me.
Freedom and Wit none can confine,
And Beauty like the Sun doth shine,
But kinde and true are only mine.

Let others with attention sit,
To listen, and admire her wit,
That is a rock where I'll not split.
Let others dote upon her eyes,
And burn their hearts for sacrifice,
Beauty's a calm where danger lyes.

But Kinde and True have been long tried
A harbour where we may confide,

Cease lovely warbler cease thy fond complaint
And let thy grief give way to human woes
For all thy suffrings are to theirs but faint
When the full tide the bosom overflows
The happy partner of thy peaceful nest
In search of food alone has wander'd far
And on the mountain top he stops to rest
But love will guide him to reward thy care
Tis only mans to triumph o'er the heart
Theen throw it from him a neglected thing
To smile at all our pain and call it art
While constancy for us points every sting

VERSE

Time and again I've longed for adventure,
Something to make my heart beat the faster.
What did I long for?
I never really knew.
Finding your love I've found my adventure,
Touching your hand, my heart beats the faster.
All that I want in all of this world is you.

REFRAIN

You are the promised kiss of springtime
That makes the lonely winter seem long.
You are the breathless hush of evening
That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.
You are the angel glow
That lights a star,

1. Thy loving kindness, Lord, I sing, Of grace and life the
2. I to thy mercyseat repair, And find thy loving-
sacred spring; The spring o'er-flowing, rich, and
kindness there; And when to thy sweet word I
free, In precious blood, once shed for me.
go, Thy loving kindness there I know.

3. Each evening, from the world apart,
Thy loving kindness cheers my heart;
And when the day salutes mine eyes,
I see thy loving kindness rise.

4. Lord, from the moment of my birth,
I've nothing known but love on earth;

Thus ends my Love, but this doth grieve me most,
That so it ends, but that ends too, this yet,
Besides the Wishes, hopes and time I lost,
Troubles my mind awhile, that I am set
Free, worse then deny'd: I can neither boast
Choice nor success, as my Case is, nor get
Pardon from my self, that I loved not
A better Mistress, or her worse; this Debt
Only's her due, still, that she be forgot
Ere chang'd, lest I love none; this done, the taint
Of foul Inconstancy is clear'd at least
In me, there only rests but to unpaint

The thriftles thred which pampred beauty spinnes,
In thraldom binds the foolish gazing eyes:
As cruell Spiders with their crafty ginnes,
In worthlesse webbes doe snare the simple Flies.
The garments gay, the glittring golden gite,
The tysing talk which flowes from Pallas pooles:
The painted pale, the (too much) red made white,
Are smiling baytes to fishe for loving fooles.
But lo, when eld in toothlesse mouth appeares,
And hoary heares in steede of beauties blaze:
Then had I wist, doth teach repenting yeares,

Thou cheat'st us Ford , mak'st one seeme two by Art.
What is Loves Sacrifice , but the broken Heart?

This midnight brings a moonless,
glossless dark, leaving our dew unlit
and mysterious in the grass.
My lady
begins as usual to cross
the gloomy path,
barefoot over grass and I
shall see her face
framed in my window's glass.
And inside her wild eyes
the illusions will break.
There —
the dew changes
her ebony hair to green
and a damp lock clings
to her brow. Now she stretches
out her hand without a word
(lovers need none) to show where
the golden band of love has been removed

They say the most of mothers
Are something pretty fine,
But nobody else's mother
Can be so dear as mine.

She never fails or falters
When things go hard or wrong;
No matter what my troubles,
She'll help me right along.

Her thought for me is endless —
A million times a day
She gives me love and comfort,
For which I cannot pay.

I can't begin to tell her
My love in just a line,
But no one else's mother
Is quite so dear as mine.

These are my scales to weigh reality, —
A dream, a chord, a longing, love of Thee.
Real as the violets of April days,
Or those soft-hid in unfrequented ways;
Real as the noiseless tune to which we tread
The measure we by life's old song are led;
Real as man's wonder what his soul may be, —
A guest for time or for eternity.
Real as the ocean, seen, alas! no more,
Whose tide still beats along my heart's inshore.
These are my scales to weigh reality, —
A chord, a dream, a longing, love of Thee!