love poems

Love , that long since hast to thy mighty powre
Perforce subdude my poore captived hart,
And raging now therein with restlesse stowre,
Doest tyrannize in everie weaker part,
Faine would I seeke to ease my bitter smart
By any service I might do to thee,
Or ought that else might to thee pleasing bee.

And now t' asswage the force of this new flame,
And make thee more propitious in my need,
I meane to sing the praises of thy name,
And thy victorious conquests to areed;
By which thou madest many harts to bleed

Come, little John, tell me the lovely tale
Of your fine friendship with The Man, nor fail
To whisper every detail that shall prove
His glorious love.

Were things as difficult with you as now?
You were the younger, weren't you? Tell me how
You met Him. Did his eyes so soft and sad
Attract you, lad?

Or was it first the charm of that deep voice
That thrilled and made your boyish heart rejoice?
I know He won you not by force or stealth
But by Himself.

And did He recognize His image, you, in truth,

Slim cunning hands at rest, and cozening eyes—
Under this stone one loved too wildly lies;
How false she was, no granite could declare;
Nor all earth's flowers, how fair.

P[hillips] loved me, not as he lovd his Friends
For he lovd them for gain to serve his Ends
[But] He lovd me [but] and for no Gain at all
But to rejoice & triumph in my fall

O fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind!
As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping;
And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind,
O'er willowy meads and shadow'd waters creeping,
And Ceres' golden fields; — the sultry hind
Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping.

Through so many years
did I suffer
the agony
of keeping our secret—
that even now
I cannot bear
to let the truth be known.

Unto the calmly gathered thought
The innermost of truth is taught—
The mystery dimly understood,
That love of God is love of Good;

That to be saved is only this—
Salvation from our selfishness;
From sin itself and not the pain
That warns us of its chafing chain;

That worship's deeper meaning lies
In mercy, and not sacrifice—
Not proud humilities of sense,
But love's unforced obedience;

But here amid the poor and blind,
The bound and suffering of our kind,
In works we do, in prayers we pray,

Two loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.

The name on one all men may read,
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.

On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.

To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;

O Hari, I am mad with love: none knows my anguish.
My bed is upon the cross: how can I hope for sleep?
My love's bed is in the vault of heaven: how can I hope to find Him?
The wounded knows the wounded's state, or he who caused the wound.
The jeweller knows the jeweller's luck, or he who has the jewel.
Stricken with pain I wander from jungle to jungle, but meet with no physician there.
O Lord, Mira's pain will never cease, till Samvaliya be her physicián.

When the lean, gray grasses
—Cover me, bury me deep,
No sea wind that passes
—Shall break my sleep.

When you come, my lover,
—Sorrowful-eyed to me,
Earth mine eyes will cover;
—I shall not see.

Though with sad words splendid,
—Praising, you call me dear,
It will be all ended;
—I shall not hear.

You may live love's riot
—Laughingly over my head,
But I shall lie quiet
—With the gray dead.

Love, you will not wake me
—With all your singing carouse