love poems

I believe in God, Creator,
Shepherd of all human souls;
Not apart and watching Nature,
While her wondrous plan unrolls,
But the Father of our spirits,
And the Moulder of our frames,
Loving each as one begotten,
Calling all by separate names.

I believe his holy Spirit
Fills the earth from shore to shore,
Round about, above, within us,
Bearing witness evermore:
Where that Spirit findeth entrance,
Though it tarry but a night,
Even sordid eyes, beholding,
See the wondrous love and light.

I have drunk deep of love: last night she came
And with her kisses set my soul aflame.
Such fragrant nectar even gods above
May scarcely know: I have drunk deep of love.

Love took his seal and in thy breast
The image of me there impressed,
I in my heart thy picture have
Which that same artist did engrave.
Pluto below, the Sun above,
Shall see the witness of my love,
And never, never did I fear
That thou my likeness forth would tear.
So when we to death's judgment come
Thou must endure the traitor's doom.

Yesterday I sat between
Kate and Flo;
Flo loves me and I love Kate,
I was in a pretty state:
What was I to do?

Florence quick to me did lean,
Kissed me so:
Jealous of my other dear,
She will tell on us, I fear.
What then could I do?

I was feeling rather mean,
Longed to go;
Turned to Kitty like a thief,
Snatched one kiss—'twas all too brief—
That I had to do.

But I'm sure there'll be a scene
'Twixt the two;
Kisses into trouble lead,
Whether given or received.

If once a man has bitten been,
Mad dogs, they say, by him are seen
Wherever waters flow;
And so perchance Love's frenzied bite
Has robbed me of my senses quite
And I bewildered go.
The babbling brook, the foaming sea,
The wine cup, each reflects but thee.

Why blame the pranks that love does ever play?
What though my eyes be wet, my temples gray?
These cares are but the signs of passion's fire,
Of sleepless nights and unfulfilled desire,
Only the flame within me freshly burns,
All else to age and feebleness returns.
Yet though my sides are wrinkled in their prime,
My neck all loose and slack before its time,
If thou, dear heart, to love me now will deign
I shall grow young, my hair turn black again.

Come, heap the fagots! Ere we go
Again the cheerful hearth shall glow;
We 'll have another blaze, my boys!
When clouds are black and snows are white,
Then Christmas logs lend ruddy light
They stole from summer days, my boys,
They stole from summer days.

And let the Loving-Cup go round,
The Cup with blessed memories crowned,
That flows whene'er we meet, my boys;
No draught will hold a drop of sin
If love is only well stirred in
To keep it sound and sweet, my boys,
To keep it sound and sweet.

Where may she of the hall bedroom hold the love-hour?
In what sweet privacy find her soul before the face of the beloved?
And the kiss that lifts her from the noise of the shop,
And the bitter carelessness of the streets?
Neither is there garden nor secret parlor for her:
And cruel winter has spoiled the shores of the sea;
The benches in the park are laden with melting snow,
And the bedroom forbidden ...

But ah, the love of a woman! She will not be cheated!
Up the stoop she went to the vestibule of the house,

Love:
To approach you with the touch the sculptor gives his clay,
Subdued, inspired:
To catch in the radiance of my heart the purity of yours,
White breathless fires:
To let the still sea of song in my spirit move toward its shore, your soul,
With dying music: (Oh, hear me, adored one!)

Love:
To watch as one watches the face of the beloved coming out of death,
Every wavering of your lashes:
To feel each fluctuation of your yearning and your desire,
And meet it with caresses:

I saw the unwritten face of the child
Beside the mother's trouble-writ face.