love poems

Ah , who shall Praise receive
—And not profane her?
Fool were I to believe,
—Churl to disdain her!

Praise is the kindly love
—Of all a nation,
Lifting the man above
—His lower station.

Praise is a mortal hate;
—In blood, not money,
He pays who takes the bait,
—Swallows the honey.

Imperial renown,
—How may I win thee?
Praise me, and I shall own
—The strength of ten within me.

Praise me, and I shall sink
—In shallow water;
Folly upon the brink,

In Nature's pieces still I see
Some error that might mended be;
Something my wish could still remove,
Alter or add; but my fair love
Was framed by hands far more divine,
For she hath every beauteous line.
Yet I had been far happier
Had Nature, that made me, made her.
Then likeness might (that love creates)
Have made her love what now she hates;
Yet, I confess, I cannot spare
From her just shape the smallest hair;
Nor need I beg from all the store
Of heaven for her one beauty more.

Yes, I will love thee when the sun
Throws light upon a thousand flowers;
When winter's biting breath is gone,
And spring leads on the smiling hours.
And I will call thee beautiful—
More beautiful than May's bright wreaths—
Tho' all the air with sweets be full,
Tho' every bird his soft tone breathes.

And I will love thee when the earth
Is bright with summer's rich attire;
When morn to seas of gold gives birth,
And eve to brighter wreaths of fire;
When the broad moon and burning stars

We heard it calling, clear and low,
——That tender April morn; we stood
——And listened in the quiet wood,
We heard it, ay, long years ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,
——A friend, but from a far-off land;
——We stood and listened, hand in hand,
And heart to heart, my Love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy,
——And so it seemed as 'twere the Bird
——That Helen in old times had heard
At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.

O time far off, and yet so near!

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a loving sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome:
Whose service is my special dignity
And she my lodestar while I go and come.

And so because you love, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame

Love scorch'd my finger, but did spare
The burning of my heart:
To signifie, in Love my share
Sho'd be a little part.

Little I love; but if that he
Wo'd but that heat recall:
That joynt to ashes burnt sho'd be,
Ere I wo'd love at all.

That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.

Tie one end of a rope fast over a beam,
And make a slip-noose at the other extreme;
Then just underneath let a cricket be set,
On which let the lover most manfully get;
Then over his head let the snecket be got,
And under one ear be well settled the knot.
The cricket kicked down, let him take a fair swing;
And leave all the rest of the work to the string.

They that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up;
Neither do, nor care to know,
Whether it be best or no.

So they that are to love inclined
Swayed by chance, not choice, or art,
To the first that's fair, or kind,
Make a present of their heart;
'Tis not she that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.

To man, that was in the evening made,
Stars gave the first delight,
Admiring, in the gloomy shade,
Those little drops of light;