love poems

Those men who love the crwth and harp,
Cynghanedd, song, the englyn's art,
They love the best things God has given
To please his angel-hosts in heaven.

Those charming eyes within whose starry sphere
Love whilom sat, and smiled the hours away, —
Those braids of light, that shamed the beams of day, —
That hand benignant, and that heart sincere, —
Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear
Like snow-banks scattered with the blooms of May,
Turned to a little cold and worthless clay,
Are gone, forever gone, and perished here, —

But not unbathed by Memory's warmest tear!
Death thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour,
That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a flower,

Tho I die on a distant strand,
And they give me a grave in that land,
Yet carry me back to my own city!
Carry me back to her grace and pity!
For I think I could not rest
Afar from her mighty breast.
She is fairer than others are
Whom they sing the beauty of.
Her heart is a song and a star —
My cool, grey city of love.

Tho they tear the rose from her brow,
To her is ever my vow;
Ever to her I give my duty —
First in rapture and first in beauty,
Wayward, passionate, brave,

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOËNS

This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou 'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.

Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid;
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?

Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,

This torment of love
that is in my heart,
I know I feel it
and know not why.

I feel the keen pangs
of a frenzy desired
whose beginning is longing
and end melancholy.

And when I my sorrow
more softly bewail,
I know I am sad
and know not why.

I feel for the juncture
I crave a fierce panting,
and when I come nigh it
withhold mine own hand.

For if haply it offers
after much weary vigil,
mistrust spoils its savour
and terror dispels it.
...

Sure of successe, to you I boldly write,
Whilst Love, does every tender line endite.
Love, who is justly President of verse,
Which all his servants write, or else rehearse.
Phaebus, how'ere mistaken Poets dream,
N'er us'd a Verse, 'till Love became his theam,
To his stray'd Son, still as his passion rose
He rais'd his hasty voyce, in clamerous prose,
But when in Daphne , he wou'd Love inspire,
He woo'd in verse, sett to his silver lyre,
In moving Verse, that did her heart assail,
And cou'd on all, but Chastity prevail.

This is the gospel of labour, ring it, ye bells of the kirk!
The Lord of Love came down from above, to live with the men who work.
This is the rose that He planted, here in the thorn-curst soil:
Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of Earth is toil.

THE DAYS OF OUR YOUTH

These are the days of our youth, our days of glory and honour.
 Pleasure begotten of strength is ours, the sword in our hand.
Wisdom bends to our will, we lead captivity captive,
 Kings of our lives and love, receiving gifts from men.

Why do I speak of wisdom? The prize is not for the wisest.
 Reason, the dull ox, ploughs a soil which no joy shall reap.
Folly is fleeter far 'neath the heel of the fearless rider,
 Folly the bare-backed steed we bestride, the steed of the plains.

Is it to love to muse the live long day
On one dear object tho he's far away
And when the shadows usher in the night
His form in dreams to swim before the sight
Is it to love — when in the social train
He mixes not the mirth and song are vain
Nor wit nor sentiment nor attic ease
When he is absent have the power to please
Is it to love to feel the vital tide
Mount to the cheek and then in haste subside
The pulse to tremble and the heart to melt
Then sink away as if they never felt
All this and more a thousand times I prove

T HIRSIS a youth of the inspired train,
Faire Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phaebus sung, the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne , she as lovely and as coy;
With numbers, he the flying Nymph pursues,
With numbers, such as Phaebus selfe might use;
Such is the chase, when love and fancy leads
O'er craggy mountains, and through flowry meads,
Invok'd to testifie the lovers care,
Or forme some image of his cruell Faire:
Urg'd with his fury like a wounded Deer