love poems

Welcome, little Robin,
With your scarlet breast,
In this winter weather
Cold must be your nest.
Hopping on the carpet,
Picking up the crumbs,
Robin knows the children
Love him when he comes.

Weep not for me, Loved Woman,
Should I die;
But for yourself be weeping!

Weep not for warriors who go
Gladly to battle.
Theirs to revenge
Fallen and slain of our people;
Theirs to lay low
All our foes like them,
Death to make, singing.

Weep not for warriors,
But weep for women!
Oh, weep for all women!

Theirs to be pitied
Most of all creatures,
Whose men return not!
How shall their hearts be stayed
When we are fallen?

Weep not for me, Loved Woman,

We need a new patriotism,
A patriotism of unselfishness,
Of impartial good will;
A patriotism that loves other nations
As we love our own.

We need a far-seeing patriotism
That will look beyond the deeds of today
To the consequences of tomorrow;
A patriotism that can envision universal Commonweal.

We need an all-inclusive patriotism
Of practical unity,
Of co-operation,
Of active brotherhood,
As wide as the world
And as deep as the Kingdom of God.

We need a new patriotism,

We are not near enough to love,
I can but pity all your woe;
For wealth has lifted me above,
And falsehood set you down below.

If you were true, we still might be
Brothers in something more than name;
And were I poor, your love to me
Would make our differing bonds the same.

But golden gates between us stretch,
Truth opens her forbidding eyes;
You can't forget that I am rich,
Nor I that you are telling lies.

Love never comes but at love's call,
And pity asks for him in vain;

The way her breasts meet is hidden from me
By her lips asking my lips if I am here and
The flight of her thighs to her belly is
Too swift for my eye that lingers her love is too
Swift for a lover in love I should have been a
Jealous husband. I am an old fellow too old
For her who puts on her nightdress singing
And who laughs as she comes to bed I am too old
I should be a jealous husband instead of her love
I should be more than a page of print she knows by heart.

Old meeting-house bell
I love thy music well
It peals through the air
Sweetly full & fair
As in the early times
When I listened to its chimes.

I WANT to sing something — but this is all —
I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull
As though they were damp, and the echoes fall
Limp and unlovable.

Words will not say what I yearn to say —
They will not walk as I want them to,
But they stumble and fall in the path of the way
Of my telling my love for you.

Simply take what the scrawl is worth —
Knowing I love you as sun the sod
On the ripening side of the great round earth
That swings in the smile of God.

Upon our eyelids, dear, the dew will lie,
And on the roughened meshes of our hair,
While little feet make bold to scurry by
And half-notes shrilly cut the quickened air.

Our clean, hard bodies, on the clean, hard ground
Will vaguely feel that they are full of power,
And they will stir, and stretch, and look around,
Loving the early, chill, half-lighted hour.

Loving the voices in the shadowed trees,
Loving the feet that stir the blossoming grass —
Oh, always we have known such things as these,

My love must be as free
As is the eagle's wing,
Hovering o'er land and sea
And everything.

I must not dim my eye
In thy saloon,
I must not leave my sky
And nightly moon.

Be not the fowler's net
Which stays my flight,
And craftily is set
T' allure the sight.

But be the favoring gale
That bears me on,
And still doth fill my sail
When thou art gone.

I cannot leave my sky
For thy caprice,
True love would soar as high
As heaven is.

Unhappy East (not in that awe
you pay your Lords, whose will is law)
but in your owne unmanly raigne
on the soft sex, and proud disdaine!
what state would bring the value downe
of treasure which is all their owne?
Their thoughts to worthlesse objects move
who thus suppresse the growth of Love,
Love that extends the high desire,
Love that improves the manly fire,
and makes the price of Beauty rise
and all our wishes multiplyes;
Such high content dwells not in sense,
nor can the captiv'd fayre dispense