love poems

Such wayward ways hath Love, that most part in discord
Our wills do stand, whereby our hearts but seldom do accord.
Deceit is his delight, and to beguile and mock
The simple hearts, which he doth strike with froward diverse stroke.
He causeth the one to rage with golden burning dart,
And doth allay with leaden cold again the other's heart.
Hot gleams of burning fire, and easy sparks of flame,
In balance of unequal weight he pondereth by aim.
From easy ford, where I might wade, and pass full well,

Darling Heart if you would make me
Happy, you have found the way.
Write me letters. How they shake me
Thrill me all the common day.

With our love. I hear your laughter
Little laughs! I see your look
" They Lived Happy Ever After"
As you close the faery book.

Work's been nothing but a pleasure
Every silly little word
Dancing to some elfin measure
Piped by a small chuckling bird.

All this love — as though I've tasted
Wine too rare for human food —
I have dreamed away and wasted

Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart,
And with some store of pleasure give me aid,
For jealousy, with all them of his part,
Strong siege about the weary tower has laid.
Nay, if to break his bands thou art afraid,
Too weak to make his cruel force depart,
Strengthen at least this castle of my heart,
And with some store of pleasure give me aid.
Nay, let not jealousy, for all his art
Be master, and the tower in ruin laid,
That still, ah, Love, thy gracious rule obeyed.
Advance, and give me succor of thy part;

Stitches over and over
So the heart won't break,
Thrust the needle under
For sorrow's sake.

Stitches over and over
Till the pattern's set,
Thrust the needle under
So the heart forget.

Stitches over and over,
Needle hurry fast,
Till the love of beauty
Fall from me at last.

[Among the religious customs of the dervishes is an astronomical dance, in which the dervish imitates the movements of the heavenly bodies, by spinning on his own axis, whilst at the same time he revolves round the Sheikh in the centre, representing the sun; and, as he spins, he sings the Song of Seid Nimetollah of Kuhistan .]
Spin the ball! I reel, I burn,
Nor head from foot can I discern,
Nor my heart from love of mine,
Nor the wine-cup from the wine.
All my doing, all my leaving,
Reaches not to my perceiving;
Lost in whirling spheres I rove,

So smell those odours that do rise
From out the wealthy spiceries;
So smells the flower of blooming clove,
Or roses smothered in the stove;
So smells the air of spicèd wine,
Or essences of jessamine;
So smells the breath about the hives,
When well the work of honey thrives,
And all the busy factors come
Laden with wax and honey home;
So smell those neat and woven bowers,
All over-arched with orange-flowers,
And almond blossoms, that do mix
To make rich these aromatics;
So smell those bracelets and those bands

The spring of joy is dry
That ran into my heart;
And all my comforts fly:
My Love and I must part.
Farewell, my Love, I go,
If fate will have it so.
Yet to content us both
Return again, as doth
The shadow to the hour,
The bee unto the flower,
The fish unto the hook,
The cattle to the brook,
That we may sport our fill,
And love continue still.

Yet love's severest lawes
Allowe his subjects this redresse,
By some inversion to expresse
What Saint is of their suffrings cause;
Thy name still binds my soule though I
The mystick letters do unty.
As Jewe's the sacred Name
With a religious feare conceale,
Yet dare the letters steale,
Transposed some new sence to frame;
So though from whence I dare not tell,
Care in my breast must ever dwell.

I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring,
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing:
" Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,
Only for looks that may turn back on me;

Only for roses that your chance may throw —
Though wither'd — I will wear them on my brow,
To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain;
Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again.

Thy love before thee, I must tread behind,
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind;
But trust not all her fondness, though it seem,

A SONG between two silences Life sings,
A melody 'twixt night and patient night.
He strums his lute against the fading light
To gild the shadow that the gloaming brings,
And Love is but a plucking of the strings,
A throb of music staying music's flight,
A little note that hardly shall requite
Thine outstretched hand that mars Life's lute-playings.
Yet, when the last faint echo of that note
Has stirred the cypress-leaves at eventide,
When night has stilled forever Life's white throat,