love poems

With Fooles and Children good Discretion beares;
Then honest People, beare with Love and Me,
Nor older yet, nor wiser made by yeeres,
Amongst the rest of Fooles and Children be:
Love still a Baby, playes with Gawdes and Toyes,
And like a Wanton, sports with ev'ry Fether;
And Ideots still are running after Boyes,
Then Fooles and Children fitt'st to goe together:
He still as young as when he first was borne,
No wiser I, then when as young as he.
You that behold us, laugh us not to scorne,
Give Nature thankes, you are not such as we:

And would'st thou reach, rash scholar mine,
Love's high unruffled state?
Awake! thy easy dreams resign,
First learn thee how to hate:—

Hatred of sin, and Zeal, and Fear,
Lead up the Holy Hill;
Track them, till Charity appear
A self-denial still.

Dim is the philosophic flame,
By thoughts severe unfed:
Book-lore ne'er served, when trial came,
Nor gifts, when faith was dead

Behold, a Silly, tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies,
Alas! a piteous sight.
The inns are full, no man will yield
This little pilgrim bed;
But forced is He with silly beasts
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there;
First what He is enquire;
As orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by Him feed;
Weigh not His mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This stable is a Prince's court,

This lovely morn the dewdrops flash
Like diamonds on the grass—
A blaze of sparkling jewels! But
The autumn wind, alas!
Scatters them as I pass.

When love is bright and whole again,
I'll sing like the bee's weather,
I'll set my colours up again
Like the cock-pheasant's feather,
I'll find a note to make me one
With lyric birds that sing the sun.

I'll fill my songs with palmer's buds
And sprigs of thorn for Whitsunday,
And they shall dance as willow rods,
And shine with garlands of the may,
I'll be a theme that takes the spring
From bushes where the blackbirds sing.

I'll walk among my sheep again
And turn my steps to numbers,

Today, your being so considerate
Offends, but less than had it been spring
Candle-trickling tears I shed this night
Are not because you bring her home at dark
Her dance mat come autumn will fold away,
Her concert fan will gather sheets of dust
Since time began new love supplants the old,
So why does old love hate to greet the new?
A sliver of moon peeps into her flowery bed,
Slight chill creeps under her shawl and scarf.
Autumn will come when all things wither,
And touch her body with nature's stealth.

There is a life of endless bliss,
Far in the spirit sphere,
A better home by far than this,
Of purer love than here.

Peace, like a river broad and deep,
O'erflows that happy land,
And gales of heavenly rapture sweep
Along its blooming strand.

Celestial mansions, bright and fair,
In glorious grandeur rise,
The gardens of the Lord are there,—
The vales of paradise.

O let us tread the blessed road
Of goodness, truth and love,
Led by the spirit of our God,
To that pure home above.

We were waiting at the station,
Soon the cars would surely start,
Hearts beat high with love's emotion,
For we knew we soon must part.
On dark lashes seemed to glisten
Tiny crystal tear drops shine;
To the fond voice glad I listen,
While dear eyes look into mine.

And the last words quickly spoken,
Darling still to me be true,
Let your promise be unbroken,
For I will be true to you.
Once I felt the soft hand tremble,
And my heart throbbed with its bliss;
Lips that rose-buds did resemble,

My lad is ever gone from me.
The roads all beckon him away;
And all day long, and every day,
The wide world bids him come and see!
Unto my lad, the Spring we met
Was no more fair than any spring;—
A listless bud, a wayside thing
To strip of petals and forget
At some clear call from out a pine.
My lad, he is no lad of mine:
I think I shall not ever set
My eyes on his, again.—And yet,
My heart like some dull talking-bird
Learns not from sorrow, but must say
Over and over, one poor word

O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!
A touch, a ray, that is not here,
A shadow that is gone:

A dream of breath that might be near,
An inly-echoed tone,
The thought that one may think me dear,
The place where one was known,

The tremor of a banished fear,
An ill that was not done—
O me, O me, what frugal cheer
My love doth feed upon!