love poems

Kiss me then, my merry May,
By the soul of love I pray!
Prithee, nay! Tell, tell me why?
If with you I sport and play,
My mother will be vexed to-day.
Tell me why, oh tell me why.

Unloved I love, unwept I weep,
Grief I restrain, hope I repress;
Vain is this anguish, fixed and deep,
Vainer desires or means of bliss.

My life is cold, love's fire being dead;
That fire self-kindled, self-consumed;
What living warmth erewhile it shed,
Now to how drear extinction doomed!

Devoid of charm how could I dream
My unasked love would e'er return?
What fate, what influence lit the flame
I still feel inly, deeply burn?

Alas! there are those who should not love;
I to this dreary band belong;

Each fickle art you try in vain
A constant breast to move;
For she who would be lov'd again,
Herself must learn to love.

While that the sun with his beams hot
Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,
Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
In shadow of a green oak-tree
Upon his pipe this song play'd he:

Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
Burning in flames beyond all measure:

The larks had nestlings; dreaming of no hurt,
Joyous they thrilled their love-song overhead:
Back to his watch,—savage, erect, alert,—
The brigand Hawk returned with talons red.

I have grete marvel of a brid
That with my love is went away;
She bildes her in another stid:
Therfore I morn both night and day.
I couth never serve that brid to pay,
Ne frendship with her can I none find,
But fast fro me she flys away—
Alas that ever she was unkind!

Alas! why is she with me wroth,
And to that brid I trespast nought?
Ye, if she be never so loth,
She shall nought come out of my thought.
Now of me she gives right nought,
But bildes her fer under a lind,

A THOUSAND fops may flatter to deceive,
Yet doubt their transports, nor their vows believe;
But if a feeling heart with love should burn,
Approve the passion, and the love return;
For few the joys this checquer'd life bestows,
Its pleasures fleeting! permanent its woes!
Yet love can gild, with brightest rays the scene,
And hope can make the barren desart green;
For sure if bliss to human kind is known,
'Tis when two breasts a mutual passion own;
When hopes and fears to one dear object tend,
And the sweet mistress is the truest friend!

Whene'er I lift my eyes to bliss,
I stagger blind with pain,
Afar into the folding night
The silence, and the rain.

Whene'er I feel the urge of Spring,
A throbbing, unknown woe
Enfolds me; I am desolate
When love is calling low.

I, your true lover,
Demand neither words nor your silence.
My heart can discover
Delight in transport or in continence.

My faith is zenith, earth, and air,
Ever beneath, about, above,
And when you wander I am there,
So changing-constant—since I love.

Give them just a little love,
These poor creatures with no traces
Of the lovely in their faces.
Though they take your gift with scorning,
Though they grieve you night and morning;
In the name of God above,
Give them just a little love.

Give them just a little love,
Touch their hands in friendly fashion,
Speak to them in kind compassion,
Tell them of the Heavenly City,
With its everlasting pity,
In the name of God above;
Give them just a little love.

Give them just a little love,