love poems

Love-sick I am, and must endure
A desp'rate grief, that finds no cure.
Ah me! I try; and trying, prove,
No Herbs have power to cure Love.
Only one Soveraign salve, I know,
And that is Death, the end of Woe.

When I did goe from thee, I felt that smart,
Which Bodies do, when Souls from them depart.
Thou did'st not mind it; though thou then might'st see
Me turn'd to tears; yet did'st not weep for me.
'Tis true, I kist thee; but I co'd not heare
Thee spend a sigh, t'accompany my teare.
Me thought 'twas strange, that thou so hard sho'dst prove,
Whose heart, whose hand, whose ev'ry part spake love.
Prethee (lest Maids sho'd censure thee) but say
Thou shed'st one teare, when as I went away;
And that will please me somewhat: though I know,

Let me be warme; let me be fully fed:
Luxurious Love by Wealth is nourished.
Let me be leane, and cold, and once grown poore,
I shall dislike, what once I lov'd before.

I'm free from thee; and thou no more shalt heare
My puling Pipe to beat against thine eare:
Farewell my shackles, (though of pearle they be)
Such precious thraldome ne'r shall fetter me.
He loves his bonds, who when the first are broke,
Submits his neck unto a second yoke.

Why this Flower is now call'd so,
List' sweet maids, and you shal know.
Understand, this First-ling was
Once a brisk and bonny Lasse,
Kept as close as Danae was:
Who a sprightly Springall lov'd,
And to have it fully prov'd,
Up she got upon a wall,
Tempting down to slide withall:
But the silken twist unty'd,
So she fell, and bruis'd, she dy'd.
Love, in pitty of the deed,
And her loving-lucklesse speed,
Turn'd her to this Plant, we call
Now, The Flower of the Wall.

When what is lov'd, is Present, love doth spring;
But being absent, Love lies languishing.

Hard is the fate of him who loves,
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,
But to the sympathetic groves,
But to the lonely listening plain.

Oh, when she blesses next your shade,
Oh, when her footsteps next are seen
In flowery tracts along the mead,
In fresher mazes o'er the green;

Ye gentle spirits of the vale,
To whom the tears of love are dear,
From dying lilies waft a gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear.

Oh, tell her, what she cannot blame,
Though fear my tongue must ever bind,

I

You love all, you say,
 Round, beneath, above me:
Find me then some way
 Better than to love me,
Me, too, dearest May!

II

O world-kissing eyes
 Which the blue heavens melt to;
I, sad, overwise,
 Loathe the sweet looks dealt to
All things—men and flies.

III

You love all, you say:
 Therefore, Dear, abate me
Just your love, I pray!
 Shut your eyes and hate me—
Only me —fair May!

I

I CLASSED , appraising once,
Earth's lamentable sounds, — the welladay,
The jarring yea and nay,
The fall of kisses on unanswering clay,
The sobbed farewell, the welcome mournfuller, —
But all did leaven the air
With a less bitter leaven of sure despair
Than these words — " I loved ONCE ."

No hope in life; yet is there hope
In death, the threshold of man's scope:
Man yearneth (as the heliotrope

For ever seeks the sun) thro' light
Thro' dark for Love: all read aright
Is Love for Love is infinite.

Shall not this infinite Love suffice
To feed thy dearth? Lift heart and eyes
Up to the hills, grow glad and wise.

The hills are glad because the sun
Kisses their round tops every one
Where silver fountains laugh and run:

Smooth pebbles shine beneath; beside