love poems

I own three golden nuggets.
Two boys and a girl;
Who fondly call me mother;
I'm the happiest woman in the world.

I loved them ere they knew me,
I prayed that they might live;
As their little brown arms entwined me,
I gave all that I could give.

A mother's love and sympathy;
A mother's joy and tears;
A mother's heart—felt interest,
And above all, a mother's prayers.

I heard their childish laughter,
I joined them in their play;
I kissed their cuts and bruises;
I wiped their tears away.

Pause, pause, thou libertine, and lay
Thy hand upon thy bounding heart,
And ask thy soul, if to betray
The virgin is a manly part?

Alas! 'tis here the error lies—
'Tis gallantry to rob the maid
Of her fair fame, and tyrannize
O'er the fond heart by love betray'd.

Mistaken Man! the honor prize
Of Woman, nor her peace destroy;
'Tis her meek smile that best supplies
The sweetest zest of social joy.

Reject th' enticements of Desire,
Ye lovely maids, with cautious mind;

Oh, greater than God!
Oh, deeper than all wisdom!
Oh, sharper than the sting of death!
Oh, more boundless than earth
Or the many stars,
This love that fills my heart.

Oh miracle of the divine!
Oh, mystery of all mysteries!
Oh, strange flight of the spirit!
Oh, beauty illimitable
As the wide sky—
This love that fills my heart.

(Earth is a rainbow,
And my heart is young with wonder,
Since Love has come.)

Yes, here, my pretty swallow, twittering guest,
You every summer build your little nest,
And wing your flight ere comes the snow
To Memphis, or you seek the shores of Nile.
But Eros in my heart with many a wile
His nest weaves and he will not go.
One love is fully fledged and one is still
Within the shell; another half-fledged will
Become a grown love shortly; so
Great is the noise they make no peace at all
I have; the larger ones support the small.
In turn the younger nurslings too
Produce an infant brood. I cannot free

Art is a world of beauty
Serene as a summer night,
Where Love is the lord of duty,
And faith is the only light.

Life is a weaver to fashion
Dreams from a golden skein
With instruments of passion
And ministries of pain.

Anger , in hasty words or blows,
Itself discharges on our foes;
And sorrow, too, finds some relief
In tears, which wait upon our grief;
So every passion, but fond love,
Unto its own redress does move;
But that alone the wretch inclines
To what prevents his own designs;
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,
Disordered, tremble, fawn, and creep;
Postures which render him despised,
Where he endeavours to be prized.
For women (born to be controlled)
Stoop to the forward and the bold;
Affect the haughty and the proud,

I think that man hath made no beauteous thing
More lovely than a glorious melody
That soars aloft in splendor, full and free,
And graceful as a swallow on the wing!
A melody that seems to move, and sing,
And quiver, in its radiant ecstasy,
That bends and rises like a slender tree
Which sways before the gentle winds of Spring!

Ah, men will ever love thee, holy art!
For thou, of all the blessings God hath given,
Canst best revive and cheer the wounded heart
And nearest bring the weary soul to Heaven!

What of all the will to do?
It has vanished long ago,
For a dream-shaft pierced it through
From the Unknown Archer's bow.

What of all the soul to think?
Some one offered it a cup
Filled with a diviner drink,
And the flame has burned it up.

What of all the hope to climb?
Only in the self we grope
To the misty end of time:
Truth has put an end to hope.

What of all the heart to love?
Sadder than for will or soul,
No light lured it on above;
Love has found itself the whole.

He gloomily sat by the wall,
As gaily she danced with them all.
Her laughter's light spell
On every one fell;
His heartstrings were near unto rending,
But this there was none comprehending.

She fled from the house, when at eve
He came there to take his last leave.
To hide her she crept,
She wept and she wept;
Her life-hope was shattered past mending,
But this there was none comprehending.

Long years dragged but heavily o'er,
And then he came back there once more.
—Her lot was the best,

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still,"
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it;
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;
I like the government (but that is not it);
I like the freedom of the press and quill;
I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it);
I like a parliamentary debate,
Particularly when 'tis not too late;

I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;