love poems

The Old Love kissed you and went by,
Without the New Love stands
With roses red to crown your head,
New roses in his hands.”

I know not if she heard at all;
I only know she bent
Above the withered blooms she held,
As one too well content.

“In this your house grown desolate
The chills of Winter cling;
The New Love waits without your gates
To lead you back to Spring.”

I know not if she heard at all;
I only know she turned
Her hands above the empty hearth,

True love is water'd aye wi' tears,
It grows 'neath stormy skies,
It's fenced around wi' hopes and fears,
An' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs.
Wi' chains o' gowd 'twill no be bound,
Oh! wha the heart can buy?
The titled glare, the warldling's care—
Even absence 'twill defy,
Even absence 'twill defy.

And time, that kills a' ither things,
His withering touch 'twill brave,
'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief,
'Twill live beyond the grave!
'Twill live, 'twill live though buried deep,

Show Love to those you love, lest Love should fail;
Let not the Long Grass grow on Friendship's Trail.

Some Hearts resemble Little Pools that are
Just large enough to mirror One Dear Star.

N EVER needlessly offend;
Lose no Chance to Make a Friend.

T HE Truest Mirrors Fortune sends
Are Honest Eyes of Faithful Friends.

O LD Friends are best; yet, as the Swift Years run,
Make New Ones, too, or Time may leave you None.

“L ITTLE children, come to me:”
This is what the Saviour said:
Little children, come and see
Where these gracious words are read.

Often on these pages look:
Of the love of God they tell;
'T is indeed a holy book:
Learn to read and love it well.

Thus you hear the Saviour speak,—
“Come ye all, and learn of me:”
He was gentle, lowly, meek;
So should all his followers be.

When our Saviour from above,
From his Father did descend,
Folded in his arms of love,

My mistress loves no woodcocks
Yet loves to pick the bones;
My mistress loves no jewels
Yet loves the precious stones;
My mistress loves no hunting
Yet loves to hear the horn;
My mistress loves no tables
Yet loves to see men lorn;
My mistress loves no wrestling
Yet loves to take a fall;
My mistress loves not some things,
And yet she loveth all;
My mistress loves a spender
Yet loves she not a waster;
My mistress loves no cuckold,
And yet she loves my master.

Miraculous love's wounding!
E'en those darts my sweet Phyllis
So fiercely shot against my heart rebounding,
Are turned to roses, violets and lilies,
With odour sweet abounding.

To you, my conqueror, this ivy wound
In wreaths I give—the ivy that alway
Holds trees and walls close twined in spray on spray,
Tendril on tendril, wrapt, embraced, and bound.

It is your right to be with ivy crowned!
Would it were mine to wind me, night and day,
Round you, my column, in the ivy's way,
And lie along your breast in love's deep swound. . . .

Ah, will the time not come, will it not be—
When, just as dawn awakes the world to life,
'Neath branches of a bower thick shade encloses,

Oh, you are near, my love, so near tonight
That, sitting in the dusk and silence here,
With miles between, I feel your spirit's might,
I know your heart's whole message to me, dear.

The dark is golden with you, music-filled;
My reaching thoughts have drawn you, you are mine.
So near you are, I feel your touch, love-thrilled,
The magic of you makes the moments wine.

Love—you are here! Your arms about me fold
O! blinding rapture of this certainty
O! storm of stars, O! universe of gold

Oh! doubt me not—the season
Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awaked by love.
Altho' this heart was early blown,
And fairest hands disturbed the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not—the season
Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

And tho' my lute no longer
May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger

Take hence this tuneful Trifler's lays!
I'll hear no more the' unmeaning strain
Of Venus' doves, and Cupid's darts,
And killing eyes, and wounded hearts;
All Flattery's round of fulsome praise,
All Falsehood's cant of fabled pain.

Bring me the Muse whose tongue has told
Love's genuine, plaintive, tender tale;
Bring me the Muse whose sounds of woe
Midst Death's dread scenes so sweetly flow,
When Friendship's faithful breast lies cold,
When Beauty's blooming cheek is pale:
Bring these—I like their grief sincere;