love poems

Wolde God that hyt were so
As I cowde wysshe bytuyxt us two

The man that I loved al ther best
In al thys contre, est other west,
To me he ys a strange gest.
What wonder est thow I be wo?

When me were levest that he shold duelle
He wold noyht sey onys far welle
He wold noyht sey onys farewell
When tyme was come that he wold go.

In places ofte when I hym mete
I dar noyht speke but forth I go
With herte and eyes I hym grete
So trywe of love I know no mo

As he ys myn hert love

Saint John did lean on Jesus's breast,
Jesus loved John more than the rest,
Our loving Jesus St John did love,
His Gospel it doth clearly prove,
Then let St John be loved by us
Who was beloved by our Jesus.

Divine mysteries locked under seal
To St John Jesus did reveal,
His secrets did to him impart,
Made him the treasurer of his heart;
Then let St John be loved by us
Who was beloved by our Jesus.

He was Disciple, Evangelist,
Apostle, Prophet, what he list;
John his most darling friend

“ In un boschetto trovai pastorella ”—? G UERZO DI M ONTECANTI

Rustling leaves of the willow-tree
Peering downward at you and me,
And no man else in the world to see.

Only the birds, whose dusty coats
Show dark in the green—whose throbbing throats
Turn joy to music and love to notes.

Lean your body against the tree,
Lifting your red lips up to me,
Ettarre, and kiss with no man to see!

And let us laugh for a little.—Yea,
Let love and laughter herald the day
When laughter and love will be put away.

Round among the quiet graves,
When the sun was low,
Love went grieving, — Love who saves:
Did the sleepers know?

At his touch the flowers awoke,
At his tender call
Birds into sweet singing broke,
And it did befall

From the blooming, bursting sod
All Love's dead arose,
And went flying up to God
By a way Love knows.

Round about, round about,
Maggotty pie;
My father loves good ale,

The roses of yesteryear
Were all of them white and red:
It fills my heart with silent fear
To find all their beauty fled.

The roses of white are sere,
All faded the roses of red;
And one who loves me is noThere,
And one that I love is dead.

A Robyn
Joly Robyn,
Tell me how thy leman doeth
And thou shall knowe of myn.

My lady is unkynd, perde!
Alack, whi is she so?
She loveth an othre better then me,
And yet she will say no.

RESPONCE

I fynde no suche doublenes,
I fynde women true.
My lady loveth me dowtles
And will chaunge for no newe.

LE PLAINTIF

The ring, so worn as you behold,
So thin, so pale, is yet of gold:
The passion such it was to prove--

Worn with life's care, love yet was love.

That strong god whose touch made Dante tremble,
Who made the sun rise and the stars fall,
And could make saints of you and me for an hour,
Now that the world is wise has lost his power:
He was only a pantomime uncle after all.

" Love for another is simply the willing of good"
True for the Middle Ages, a genuine thrill,
But now such childish fancies are outgrown.
This is the truth for modern, adult man:
" Love is simply the perfect wish to kill."

A foaming white wave washes over a grave,
the tomb of Rhufawn Pebyr, regal chieftain.
I love today what the English hate, the open land of the North,
and the varied growth that borders the Lliw.
I love those who gave me my fill of mead
where the seas reach in long contention.
I love its household and its strong buildings
and at its lord's wish to go to war.
I love its strand and its mountains,
its castle near the woods and its fine lands,
its water meadows and its valleys,
its white gulls and its lovely women.