love poems

‘Here in the window beaming across
Is he—the lineaments like him so!—
The saint whose name I do not know,
With the holy robe and the cheek aglow.
Here will I kneel as if worshipping God
When all the time I am worshipping you,
Whose Love I was—
You that with me will nevermore tread anew
The paradise-paths we trod!’

She came to that prominent pew each day,
And sat there. Zealously she came
And watched her Love—looking just the same
From the rubied eastern tracery-frame—
The man who had quite forsaken her

I love one, and he loveth me:
Who sayeth this? who deemeth this?
And is this thought a cause of bliss,
Or source of misery?

The loved may die, or he may change:
And if he die thou art bereft;
Or if he alter, nought is left
Save life that seemeth strange.

A weary life, a hopeless life,
Full of all ill and fear-oppressed;
A weary life that looks for rest
Alone after death's strife.

And love's joy hath no quiet even;
It evermore is variable.
Its gladness is like war in Hell,

Because I feel that I cannot forget,
I think thee, Lord!—Because for ever now
My eyes will meet the sinless eyes I met,
And see the dark hair shade a sinless brow:

Because, though she is dead,—aye, dead in shame,
Polluted through the villany of one
Who, lusting, did in love's dishonoured name
The meanest deed that ever on earth was done;

Because, though she be lost, she for whose sake
I would have gone with singing to my tomb,
I think of her … as even the ice-bound lake

These fresh beauties (we can prove)
Once were Virgins sick of love,
Turn'd to Flowers. Still in some
Colours goe, and colours come.

Oh , no—not even when first we loved,
?Wert thou as dear as now thou art;
Thy beauty then my senses moved,
?But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but Passion's sigh before,
?Has since been turned to Reason's vow;
And, though I then might love thee more ,
?Trust me, I love thee better now.
Altho' my heart in earlier youth
?Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gained in truth
?Much more than it has lost in fire.
The flame now warms my inmost core,
?That then but sparkled o'er my brow,

I

SHE sang of Love so loud and long
?That when one day he came to call
She was so busy with her song
?She did not hear him knock at all;
And aShe left, unrecognized,
He looked exceedingly surprised.
II

Searching for Love, the distance o'er
?She scanned the high and starry way,
And never knew that by her door
?He greeted her, say, thrice a day,
Because he wore, ah! hapless one,
The aspect of her neighbour's son.
III

About her everywhere she saw
Love's double breaking love and law,

BEGIN A BALLAD ON IT

The wind is weary, the world is wan;
?(Oh, lone, lank lilies and long, lean loves)
My shield is shed, my armor is gone,
And Virtue is all I depend upon.
( My lily ,
?My lissome lily, my languid love.)
Full thirteen days have I walked with woe,
?(Oh dear, dead days and divine desires)
And wolves may follow where'er I go,
But nothing shall stop my song's sweet flow.
( My lily ,
?My love, my delirious, dark desire.)
The night is old and threadbare and thin,
?(Oh limpid lily, oh labial love)

ROBERT HERRICK

INCLUDES IT IN ONE OF HIS “PIOUS PIECES”
?Fuscus, dear friend,
?I prithee lend
An ear for but a space,
?And thou shalt see
?How Love may be
A more than saving grace.
?As on a day
?I chanced to stray
Beyond my own confines
?Singing, perdie,
?Of Lalage
Whose smile no star outshines—
?So 'tranced were all
?That heard me call
On Love, that (from a grot)
?A wolf who heard
?That tender word,
Listened and harmed me not.
?Thus shielded by
?The magicry

I.

TO our Redeemer's glorious name,
?Awake the sacred song!
O may his love, (immortal flame!)
?Tune every heart and tongue.
II.

His love, what mortal thought can reach?
?What mortal tongue display?
Imagination's utmost stretch
?In wonder dies away.
III.

Let wonder still with love unite,
?And gratitude and joy;
Be Jesus our supreme delight,
?His praise, our best employ.
IV.

Jesus who left his throne on high,
?Left the bright realms of bliss,
And came on earth to bleed and die—

PARABLE XXXII.

The True Vine

The true and genuine vine am I,
The husbandman my Sire on high;
Each branch in me that grows in vain,
He will not suffer to remain:
But that which yields a plenteous store,
He purges to increase the more.
From your offence you now are clear'd
By those pure words, which you have heard.
Abide in me, and I in you;
For as the branch no fruit can shew,
Unless it cleave unto the tree,
So ye are nothing but in me.
Ye are the branches, I the vine,