love poems

Come , O Love, while the far stars whiten,
Gathering, growing, momently;
Thou, who art star of stars, to lighten
One dim heart that waiteth thee.

Speak, O Love, for the silence presses,
Bowing my spirit like a fear;
Thou, whose words are as caresses,
Sweet, sole voice that I long to hear.

IN THE FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL

The liberal summer wind and sky and sea,
For thy sake, narrow like a prison cell
About the wistful hearts that love thee well
And have no power to comfort nor set free.
They dare not ask what these hours mean to thee:
Delays and silences intolerable?
The joy that seemed so near, that soared, and fell,
Become a patient, tragic memory?

A WAKE , lovely Alice, the dawn's on the hill,
The voice of the mavis is heard by the rill,
The blackbird is singing his song in the brake,
And the green woods are ringing — awake, love, awake!

The wild rose is blushing, the pea is in bloom,
The zephyr is brushing the long yellow broom;
But thy voice is far sweeter than bird's on the tree,
And joy is far deeper, sweet Alice, with thee.

The voice of lone Locher comes mellow and sweet,
But sweeter to me were the fa' o' thy feet;
The hawthorn is hoary and rich with perfume,

When youthful charms
Fly pleasure's arms
Kind nature's gifts are vain;
We should not save
What nature gave,
But kindly give again.

Though scorn and pride
Our wishes hide
And though the tongue says " Nay " ,
The honest heart
Takes pleasure's part,
Denying all we say.

The birds in spring
Will sport and sing
And revel through the grove;
And shall not we.
As blithe and free,

A Virgin, Wife , and Widow three that One
Held rarely perfect in like Vnion ,
Incites my Muse: nay, more, doth her constrain
To empt my Pen of Praise , of Wit my Braine
In her deserued honor: she whose all
Was nought but good ; yet so, as we may call
That good but nought (and iustly) if the same
Giue not her goodnesse glory more than fame!
A Maide , in whom Virginitie gaue place
(Though most exact) to Modestie and Grace .
A Wife (who like old Josephs blessed Bride )

To my most louing and highly valued friend, Mr Nathaniell Tomphins

T O pay you (deere Nathaniell) with that gold
I once receauèd of you, is but right;
Yours gaue mee glory; then your debter should.
Giue you the same, with wearing made more bright:
 But (ah) I cannot, sith you still refine.
 Your worthes, which at the worst, farre passèd mine.

Most noble lord, that truest worthinesse
Which in thy nature and thy carriage shines,
Doth presse me now to make them passe the Presse
Led thereto by these too-slacke twisted lines
Thou art a subiect worthy of the Muse
When most she raignes in height of happinesse;
Into whose noble spright the heauens infuse
All guifts and graces gracing noblenesse.
In few, there are so many parts in thee
(All wholy noble) as thus fixt shall bee
On Fames wings when she past herselfe doth flee.

Whate'er you say, whate'er you do,
My heart shall still be fixed and true.
The vicious bosom love deforms
And rages there in gusts and storms,
But love with us a constant gale,
Just swells the sea and fills the sail:
Neither of winds or waves the sport,
We rule the helm and gain the port.

While before St. Agnes' shrine
Knelt a true knight's lady-love,
From the wars of Palestine
Came a gentle carrier-dove.
Round his neck a silken string
Fastened words the warrior writ:
At her call he stooped his wing,
And upon her finger lit.

She, like one enchanted, pored
O'er the contents of the scroll —
For that lady loved her lord
With a pure, devoted soul.
To her heart her dove she drew,
While she traced the burning line;
Then away his minion flew
Back to sainted Palestine.

The truest is the simplest. Why entail
Whole days of years to some complex pursuit,
To probe life's flower and analyze its fruit?
O weary student, perplexed, spectre-pale,
Why beat against the granite of thy gaol,
Self-built; or kill the flower to search the root?
Doth lore make mankind any less the brute?
Or knowledge alone for godlike flight avail?

'Tis love draws all from earth to heaven's heights.
Not all thy weary lore of sleepless nights
Hath power to touch like one low daisied sod; —