love poems

Come, love, for now the night and day
Play with their pawns of black and white,
And what day loses in her play
Is won by the encroaching night.

The elematis grows old and clings
Grey-bearded to the roadside trees
And in the hedge the nightshade strings
Her berries in bright necklaces.

The fields are bare; the latest sheaf
Of barley, wheat and rusty rye
Is stacked long since; and every leaf
Burns like a sunset on the sky.

Come, love, for night and day, alas,
Are playing for a heavier stake

Come listen, O Love, to the voice of the dove,
Come, hearken and hear him say,
There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love, —
There is only one To-day.

And all day long you can hear him say
This day in purple is rolled,
And the baby stars of the milky-way —
They are cradled in cradles of gold.

Now what is thy secret, serene gray dove,
Of singing so sweetly alway?
" There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love, —
There is only one To-day. "

Come , let us make love deathless, thou and I,
Seeing that our footing on the Earth is brief —
Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die
Mocking at all that passes our belief.
For standard of our love not theirs we take:
If we go hence to-day,
Fill the high cup that is so soon to break
With richer wine than they!

Ay, since beyond these walls no heavens there be,
Joy to revive or wasted youth repair,
I'll not bedim the lovely flame in thee,
Nor sully the sad splendor that we wear.

1. Come, Holy Spirit, Dove divine On these bap-
2. We love thy name, we love thy laws, And joyful-
tismal waters shine, And teach our hearts, in
ly embrace thy cause; We love thy cross, the
highest strain, To praise the Lamb, for sinners slain.
shame, the pain, O Lamb of God, for sinners slain.

3. We sink beneath thy mystic flood;
O bathe us in thy cleansing blood;
We die to sin, and seek a grave,
With thee, beneath the yielding wave.

4. And as we rise, with thee to live,
O let the Holy Spirit give

Come hither, you that love, and hear me sing
Of joys still growing,
Green, fresh, and lusty as the pride of spring,
And ever blowing.
Come hither, youths that blush, and dare not know
What is desire;
And old men, worse than you, that cannot blow
One spark of fire;
And with the power of my enchanting song,
Boys shall be able men, and old men young.

Come hither, you that hope, and you that cry;
Leave off complaining;
Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,
Are here remaining.

Come , Celia, let's agree at last
— To love and live in quiet;
Let's tie the knot so very fast
— That time shall ne'er untie it.
Love's dearest joys they never prove,
— Who free from quarrels live;
'Tis sure a godlike part of love
— Each other to forgive.

When least I seemed concerned I took
— No pleasure, nor had rest;
And when I feigned an angry look,
— Alas! I loved you best.
Say but the same to me, you'll find
— How blest will be our fate;
Sure to be grateful, to be kind,

Of all the beauteous wares
Exposed for sale at fairs,
None will give more delight
Than those that to your sight
From distant lands we bring.
Oh, hark to what we sing!
These beauteous birds behold,
They're brought here to be sold.

And first the big one see,
SOfull of roguish glee!
With light and merry bound
He leaps upon the ground;
Then springs up on the bough.
We will not praise him now.
The merry bird behold, —
He's brought here to be sold.

And now the small one see!

‘Com my swete, com my flowr,
Com my culver, myn owne bowr,
Com my moder now with me,
For Heven-quene I make thee.’

‘My swete Sone, with al my love
I com with thee to thyn above;
Wher thou art now let me be,
For al my love is laid on thee.’

Coal black woman
fry no meat for me
No coal black woman can
fry no meat for me
You know black is evil
that gal may poison me

I got a new way of spelling
sweet old Tennessee
New way of spelling
sweet old Tennessee
New way of spelling
sweet old Tennessee
Double T, double N,
double T, double S, U, Z

My girl rolled and tumbled
cried the whole night long
Rolled and tumbled
cried the whole night long
Rolled and tumbled
cried the whole night long

The clock within us, speaking time
By heart-beat seconds and by mental years,
Is garrulous in any gear,
So life at once seems short and endless.
Who is not glad to find the hour later than he thought?
For so he has killed, not time
But the inward timing of the ceaseless rote.
Its beat, which makes him count the cost
Of that creation which, loving, he cannot resist,
Hurries him on to end whatever was begun —
The child, to be grown, the poem, to be done.

But in each other's arms,
Or on the tide of prayer, when we