love poems

Oh blessing and delight of my young heart,
Maiden, who was so lovely and so pure,
I know not in what region now thou art,
Or whom thy gentle eyes in joy assure.
Not the old hills on which we gazed together,
Not the old faces which we both did love,
Not the old books, whence knowledge we did gather,
Not these, but others now thy fancies move.
I would I knew thy present hopes and fears,
All thy companions, with their pleasant talk,
And the clear aspect which thy dwelling wears:
So, though in body absent, I might walk

Artist of the skillful hand,
Grave me a bowl, and on it show
Floral pomp of gracious spring;
Listen now to my command:
On it let bright roses grow,
Carve me birds upon the wing.
Draw the revel's mirthful whirl,
All the mad wine-kindled swirl.

Tale of horror, cruel rite,
Battle-scene or sacrifice,
Do not there depict for me
Venus, queen of soft delight,
Bacchus reeling tipsy-wise,
On the cup let pictured be.
And beneath a broad-leaved vine
Let Love and Graces twine.

. . . . . . . . . But he found her not;
Lonely and empty was the leafy cot,
Like a sad streamlet in the winter's frost
With all the glory of its lilies lost.
He searched, he called: no answering voice was heard,
But a faint shudder that the branches stirred …

I weary of these noisy nights,
—Of shallow jest and coarse “good cheer,”
Of jazzy sounds and brilliant lights.
—Come, Love, let us away from here.

Let us lay down this heavy load;
—And, side by side, far from the town,
Drive on some lovely country road;
—And, wondering, watch the sun go down.

What time is left to us, come, Love.
—The woods, the fields, shall make us whole;
The nightly pageantry above
—Our little world, keep sweet our soul.

No peace this city's madness yields—

The winter-river's
Being frozen on top
Is like me:
Flowing underneath
My love seems to move.

O Pilgrim, comes the night so fast?
Let not the dark thy heart appall,
Though loom the shadows vague and vast,
For Love shall save us all.

There is no hope but this to see
Through tears that gather fast and fall;
Too great to perish Love must be,
And Love shall save us all.

Have patience with our loss and pain,
Our troubled space of days so small;
We shall not reach our arms in vain,
For Love shall save us all.

O Pilgrim, but a moment wait,
And we shall hear our darlings call

Johnny shall have a new bonnet,
—And Johnny shall go to the fair,
And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon
—To tie up his bonny brown hair.

And why may not I love Johnny,
—And why may not Johnny love me?
And why may not I love Johnny
—As well as another body?

And here's a leg for a stocking,
—And here's a foot for a shoe;
And he has a kiss for his daddy,
—And one for his mammy, too.

And why may not I love Johnny,
—And why may not Johnny love me?
And why may not I love Johnny,

In vain the morn,
In purple born,
Proclaims a day
For Love's sweet sway;
In thoughts of thee
The hours will flee,
But I must grieve
'Till silent eve.

The morning flies,
But leaves the skies
Its golden hue,
And cloudless blue;
Love riseth late,
For him I wait,
But I must grieve
'Till silent eve.

Come, happy night,
With quicker flight;
The sweet hour lead
With lightning speed;
Day doth appear
A long, long year,
When one must grieve

I will obey the strictest law of love
As if I dealt with cherubim above.
I will accept no half gift from my friend
By which he thinks for hate to make amend.
But every friendly thought
Will come to me unbought
My friend may do whate'er he will
And I shall love him
If he doth it from love.
But let him do whateer he will
I think that I must hate him still
If lower motives move.

I love not all
I love not one alway
But that I love is one & all
And lasteth ever and aye.

Unhappy eyes, why did you gaze again,
Upon these fatal love-inspiring spheres?
Knew you not how her fire-flaughts would constrain,
Your crystal circles to dissolve in tears?
And you again, ev'n as unhappy ears,
Why did her painted phrase your fort surprise?
Knew you not well, that on her lips she bears
A charming host of persuasive replies?
Oh, eyes and ears, that ye had been more wise,
And had not waken'd up a sleeping flame,
Yet since the fault is done, my comfort lies
Upon the merits of a matchless dame—