love poems

I think my love does not know,
I think my love is satisfied not to know —
I think my love only loves — loves, loves and loves again: I think my love does not know.

My love used to be eternally asking questions that could not be answered,
Now I think my love asks no questions and would be sorry if any questions were answered
My love was once eager for the return of love, eager for the full return of love,
Now my love does not care, now my love will make no claims.

If I contained enough love,
If I provided in my simple love for all trespasses and all failures,
If I had size enough to see that no man however small is too little to be big,
If I acknowledged the griefs and still prevailed everywhere with my joys,
If I came along after the strongest had given up and revived you with my unequivocal strength,
Might I not then put a new face on the earth and give new meanings to the shining suns?
Might I not then plow into every soil with my gladness and prepare it for adequate harvests?

I spend my days and nights with those I love:
I pass without leave or hindrance into the nooks and corners of human hearts:
I who mostly rejected yet do not reject myself — who am in great favor with myself:
I go my rounds collecting my fee, the fee of love — making my claims so big:
Remitting no tax: demanding the last cent — the final drop of blood:
Hungry to eat and thirsty to drink the sure feast that may be set:
Turning aside into no minor currents but keeping to the main stream,

Once , on a bright and happy night,
At the full moon in September,
A fair young girl, in brilliant curls, —
Long ago, but we remember, —
She pledged her loving heart and hand,
In the joy of opening life,
Thenceforth to be, or weal or woe,
A fond and faithful wife.

And so two souls, like mingling drops,
Began their course together,
Making one life, — like rainbow hues
Blended in showery weather.
A day, a happy moon, a year,
The tide of time rolled on;
Days, weeks and moons, — oh, who can tell

And this is what Love said to me in the watch of our night:

Go into the broadcast world,
Try your love on haters, on the alien, thieves, those who take life,
Try your love in wars, in the drift and dreg of the underflow,
Let your love take lessons of those who do not love yet endure—of those who without returns yet live.
Why should you palter here with your untried love—here at hospitable gates?
Why should your love keep its feet tender and its palms soft?
Go with your love where it is not wanted:

A Farewel to LOVE.

Well, since in spight of all that Love can do,
The dangerous steps of Honour thoul't pursue,
I'll just grow Wise and Philosophick too:
I'll bid these tender silly things Farewel;
And Love, with thy great Antidote, expel:
I'll tread the same Ambitious Paths with thee,
And Glory too shall be my Deity.
And now I'll once release my Train of Fools,
In Sheer good Nature to the Loving Souls;
For Pity's-sake at last I'll set at rights

M ERTILL , Though my heart should break,
In granting thy desire,
To cold Clorinda I will speak,
And warm her, with my fire.

To save thee from approaching harm,
My Death I will obey.
To save thee, sinking in the Storm,
I'll cast my self away.

May her Charms equal those of thine!
No words can e're express
And let her Love be great as mine
Which the wou'd only bless.

Strephon I saw, and started at the sight,
And interchangeably looked red and white;
I felt my blood run swiftly to my heart,
And a chill trembling seize each outward part:
My breath grew short, my pulse did quicker beat,
My heart did heave, as it would change its seat:
A faint cold sweat o'er all my body spread,
A giddy megrim wheel'd about my head:
When for the reason of this change I sought,
I found my eyes had all the mischief wrought;
For they my sort to Strephon had betray'd,
And my weak heart his willing victim made:

When the Rose came I loved the Rose,
And thought of none beside,
Forgetting all the other flowers,
And all the others died;
And morn and noon, and sun and showers,
And all things loved the Rose,
Who only half returned my love,
Blooming alike for those.

I was the rival of a score
Of loves on gaudy wing,
The nightingale I would implore
For pity not to sing;
Each called her his; still I was glad
To wait or take my part;
I loved the Rose — who might have had
The fairest lily's heart.

The oaks are crooning in glee to-night,
The hour is so warm and fine;
The breeze is soft and the clouds are white
And stars in the blue sky shine.
The cricket chirrups, and love-birds peep,
And waking dreams beguile;
The lovely night is too fair for sleep,
So the wind flowers wake and smile.
The radiant moon with a stencil clear,
Top-tinsels each tuft with gold,
And shy, brown shadows creep out to hear
The tales of lovers oft told.
The oaks are beating with gentle strike
Slow time with each fringed bough;