love poems

Severn, dear Severn, friend of our boy-bard,
Thy hallowed offices of love for whom
Through that long closing agony in Rome
Outshine bright beams of great verse we would guard
Among the soul's regalia unmarred,
Thy patient loving care in that dark doom
That fell on Keats, the singer, doth illume
Our night of life above the noblest word
Of noblest poet; yet I love the boy
Who sang and suffered, saw the glorious sight
Behind the poor appearance, child of light,
Told some of his high vision, nursed a joy,

L OVE'S herald is not speech—
His fear-fraught tongue is mute—
His presence is bewrayed
By blushes deep that shoot
Athwart the conscious brow,
And mantle on the cheek,
Then fleet for tints of snow
Which soft confusion speak;
Thus red and white have place
By turns on true love's face.

Love vaunteth not his worth
In gaudy, glozing phrase,
His home is not in breast
Where thought of worlding stays;
In modest loyaltie
His fountain doth abide;
In bosom greatly good

O C IRCUMSTANCE ! what ruin thou hast made
In Love's fair world we ever may behold
By the imaginative, gentle aid
Of woful stories by old poets told;
But this stern fact gives not philosophy
Sufficient to control the grieving heart,
From bearing thee a lover's enmity,
Because thou doom'st me from my love to part.
Ah! when I think, a little while ago
I gazed into those eyes of love and light,
And lived as though time would not onward go,
But, standing still for aye, feed our delight,—

We watch'd him, while the moonlight,
Beneath the shadow'd hill,
Seem'd dreaming of good angels,
And all the woods were still.
The brother of two sisters
Drew painfully his breath:
A strange fear had come o'er him,
For love was strong in death.
The fire of fatal fever
Burn'd darkly on his cheek,
And often to his mother
He spoke, or tried to speak:
“I felt, as if from slumber
I never could awake:
Oh, Mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!
A cold, dead weight is on me,

Fair Mary, thou art exquisite,
in all respects excelling;
since I gave such constant love to thee,
paying court to thee in every company,
I am trusting in thy graciousness
and what I have had of thy converse already,
that none can lure thee away from me,
after thy promise to me.

I have heard of oak, as an adage,
that it is a peculiar timber:
that 'tis a wedge of itself, being tightened,
would rive it into splinters;
I am hoping, by that principle,
thou art pleased I am of thy people,

Just one and thirty years, or (says one, I know who,)
Eleven thousand and Three hundred Twenty two
Whole Days & Nights are past, since we arrived here
At Phi-la-del-phi-a, where ye three Sisters dear,
In Love together link'd, still arm in arm do hold
Each other, as they paint the Charities of old.
Should mine Arithmetick proceed, & multiply,
(Like God his Blessings does,) it would (Be pleas'd to try,
And pardon when ye find an overly mistake,)
Of Minuts, Seconds call'd, most thousand Millions make.

Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee:
… “And I am I, dear heart, and you are she
Whose tender note beguiled me on my way!”
They did not heed that all the sky was gray,
And not a neighbor leaf on any tree—
Two thrushes met upon an April day,
And sang a simple song of love and glee.

They did not miss the brightness of the May,
Or long the Summer's lavish wealth to see.
“April,” he chirped, “is fair enough for me,
And when you sing, lo, Spring is on the way”—

Sorry her lot who loves too well,
Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Sad are the sighs that own the spell
Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!

Sad is the hour when sets the Sun—
Dark is the night to Earth's poor daughters,
When to the ark the wearied one
Flies from the empty waste of waters!
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!

They say Despair has power to kill
With her bleak frown; but I say No:
If life did hang upon her will,
Then Hope had perish'd long ago:
Yet still the twain keep up their “barful strife,”
For Hope Love's leman is, Despair his wife.

The air is charged with amatory numbers—
Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers' lays.
Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers
The aching memory of the old, old days?

Time was when Love and I were well acquainted;
Time was when we walked ever hand in hand;
A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted,
None better loved than I in all the land!
Time was, when maidens of the noblest station,
Forsaking even military men,
Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration—
Ah me, I was a fair young curate then!