love poems

All glory to my God and King And to his place above
He shields me with his mighty wing And keeps me for his love.

Passionate light that lingers in the west,
Lovelier growing as the moments pass,
Must thou depart at rigorous night's behest?
Alas!

The hosts of darkness fill heaven's eastern plain,
Great swelling clouds in triumph, lo! they ride,
Yet thou thine amorous beauty dost disdain
To hide.

While far above, faint wayward cloudlets glow
Like radiant moments seen by memory:
Love's envoys, they are fain to fade and go
With thee.

Tender as every sense at parting is,

Not endless life, but endless love, I crave,
The gladness and the calm of holier springs,
The hope that makes men resolute and brave,
The joyful life in the great Life of Things.

And then one morning
surprised
I found myself
at the brink of wisdom
having forgotten love.

You are a poet, sycamore,
A minor poet.
You are not much good in a practical world;
You shed your ragged leaves early, and clutter up the landscape.
But you are lovely on winter evenings
Against the afterglow—
Bare and pale and a little disdainful,

O peace is a white bird,
And Beauty is a castled cloud,
And Love is a fierce fire that loves to be made kind;

And I have climbed the castled cloud,
And I have caged the fierce fire,
But the white bird, the white bird—her I cannot bind!

Jesus, I covet to love Thee,
And that is wholly my yearning:
Therefore to love Thee Thou teach me,
And I Thy love shall ever sing.

Jesus, Thy love into me send
And with Thy love Thou me feed.
Jesus, Thy love aye in me lend!
Thy Love ever be my soul's meed.

Jesus, my heart with love Thou light!
Thy love me make e'er to forsake
All worldly joy both day and night
Thee alone my joy to make.

Jesus, Thy love me chaufe within
So that no thing but Thee I seek;
In Thy love make my soul to brynne

I can tell you the name right down
Of the prettiest things in all the town;
But there isn't a thing the people sell
So fine as the girl who loves me well.

I sit in my Gipsy tent all day,
And, “How are you all?” to the folk I say;
But I'd sit for a year, and it's truth I tell,
For a glimpse of the girl who loves me well.

Oh, I'd like to be a lord, of course,
And I'd like to have a hunting-horse;
But the one and the other I'd gladly sell,
For a kiss from the girl who loves me well.

Fear no more the wingèd boy,
He has spent on me his quiver,
Tortures me in cruel joy,
Burns my heart nor leaves me ever,
Cast aside his plumage vain,
Never more to fly again.

If Leander's lips I meet
All my thoughts to Xanthus turn,
If 'tis Xanthus that I greet
For Hippomenes I burn,
If Hippomenes be nigh
To Leander back I fly.

Full possession has no charms;
What I have not, that I love.
Taking all men to my arms
There I win my treasure trove.
Blame me, maidens, if you will,
You that love one lover still.