love poems

Though he was busy with war,
He loved the way of the scholar.
His work of achieving peace
Shone brilliantly.

Happy is he, that with fix'd Eyes
The Fountain of all goodness spies!
Happy is he, that can break through
Those Bonds, which tie him here below!
The Thracian poet long ago
Kind Orpheus , full of tears and wo
Did for his lov'd Euridice
In such sad Numbers mourn, that he
Made the Trees run in to his mone,
And Streams stand still to hear him grone.
The Does came fearless in one throng
With Lyons to his mournful Song,
And charm'd by the harmonious sound
The Hare stay'd by the quiet Hound .

Faint and more faint amid the world of dreams,
That which was once my all, thy image, seems
Pale as a star that in the morning gleams.

Long time that sweet face was my guiding star,
Bringing me visions of the fair and far,
Remote from this world's toil and this world's jar.

Around it was an atmosphere of light,
Deep with the tranquil loveliness of night,
Subdued and shadowy, yet serenely bright.

Like to a spirit did it dwell apart,
Hushed in the sweetest silence of my heart,

Here Cupid tempers his unerring darts,
And in the fount of bliss delights to play;
Here mingles balmy sighs and pleasing smarts,
And here the honeyed draught will oft allay
With that black poison's all-polluting sway,
For wretched man. Hither, as Venus willed,
For Psyche's punishment he bent his way;
From either stream his amber vase he filled —
For her were meant the drops which grief alone distilled.

His quiver, sparkling bright with gems and gold,
From his fair plumed shoulder graceful hung,

'Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain
The woman's love, wife's, mother's, still will hold,
And breathes the sweeter and will more unfold
For winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain.
So in a thousand voices has the strain
Of this dear patient madness been retold,
That men call woman's love. Ah! they are bold,
Naming for love that grief which does remain.

Love faints that looks on baseness face to face:

A little child she, half defiant came
Reasoning her case — 'twas not so long ago —
" I cannot mind your scolding, for I know
However bad I were you'd love the same."
And I, what countering answer could I frame?
'Twas true, and true, and God's self told her so.
One does but ask one's child to smile and grow,
And each rebuke has love for its right name.

And yet, methinks, sad mothers who for years,
Watching the child pass forth that was their boast,
Have counted all the footsteps by new fears

The poorest peasant of the meanest soil,
The child of poverty, and heir to toil,
Early, from radiant love's impartial light,
Steals one small spark to cheer his world of night:
Dear spark! which oft, through winter's chilling woes,
Is all the warmth his little cottage knows!

Laura was lightsome, gay, and free from guile;
Bright were her eyes, and beautiful her smile;
Women found fault, but men were heard to swear
That she was lovely, though she was not fair .
Her parents were not rich, nor very poor;

O Love ! O beauteous Love!
— Thy home is made for all sweet things,
A dwelling for thine own soft dove
— And souls as spotless as her wings;
There summer ceases never:
The trees are rich with luscious fruits,
— The bowers are full of joyous throngs,
And gales that come from Heaven's own lutes
— And rivulets whose streams are songs
Go murmuring on for ever!

O Love! O wretched Love!
— Thy home is made for bitter care;
And sounds are in thy myrtle grove
— Of late repentance, long despair,

The gayest gallants of the Court
Oft fell in love, on mere report,
— With eyes they had not seen;
And knelt, and rhymed, and sighed, and frowned,
In talismanic fetters bound,
With flowers sunshine all around —
— And five-score leagues between. — MS. Poem .

VI. FLOWERS

Welcome , O pure and lovely forms! again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room!
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom —
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that look down on your folded bells
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove
Like sudden music: more than this ye bring —
Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love