love poems

Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.

Save only that faith and reason I've lost, belovéd one,
I prithee, come say, what profit From love of thee I've won.

Though grief to the wind hath given The harvest of my life,
By the dust of thy foot, I've never The pact of love fordone!

Though abject I was as the sun-mote, By Love's fair auspice, see,
For wish of thy cheek I've raised me Up even to the sun.

Bring wine, for 'tis now a lifetime That, for salvation's sake,
I sit in the nook of safety And ease and pleasance shun.

Making love to a temple boy
on top of a horse.

At a mountain temple
they use a chess board

CCXXIX

I am ready and ever will be
To do you service with honesty.
There is nothing that lacks in me
But that I have not.

My poor heart always and my mind
Fixed in yours you shall still find.
To love you best reason doth bind
Although I have not.

And for your sake I would be glad
To have much more than I have had,
The lack whereof doth make me sad
Because I have not.

For I do love ye faithfully
And ye me again right secretly.
Of let there is no cause why

'T IS joy to feel the spirit leap
Angelic from its childhood sleep,
Pure as a star, fair as a flower,
Eager with youth's unblasted power;
Where every sense gives soft consent,
To burst into love's element;
To be all touch, all eye, all ear,
And pass into love's burning sphere.

“Oh, have you not a message, you who come over the sea?
Have you not a message or word at all for me?”

“I have sailed, sailed, sailed where the seas are green and blue,
I've silver, gold and merchandise—but never a word for you.”

“But did you see my love by any way you came?
For if you saw my love, he must have spoke my name.”

“Oh, yes, I saw your love—oh, yes, and he was gay
Riding in his coach-and-six all on his birthday.”

“But when you spoke of me, of me—oh! what was it he said?”

When merry autumn in her prime,
Fruitful mother of swift time,
Had filled Ceres' lap with store
Of vines and corn, and mickle more
Such needful fruits as do grow
From Terra's bosom, here below;
Tityrus did sigh, and see
With heart's grief and eyes' gree,
Eyes and heart both full of woes,
Where Galate his lover goes.
Her mantle was vermillion red;
A gaudy chaplet on her head,
A chaplet that did shroud the beams
That Phoebus on her beauty streams,
For sun itself desir'd to see
So fair a nymph as was she,

Ah! what is love? It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,
And sweeter too;
For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,
And cares can make the sweetest love to frown.
Ah then, ah then,
If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

His flocks are folded, he comes home a night,
As merry as a king in his delight,
And merrier too;
For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds careless carol by the fire.
Ah then, ah then,

Oft have I heard my lief Corydon report on a love-day,
When bonny maids do meet with the swains in the valley by Tempe,
How bright eyed his Phyllis was, how lovely they glanced,
When fro th'arches ebon black, flew looks as a lightning,
That set afire with piercing flames even hearts adamantine:
Face rose hued, cherry red, with a silver taint like a lily.
Venus' pride might abate, might abash with a blush to behold her.
Phoebus' wires compar'd to her hairs unworthy the praising.
Juno's state, and Pallas' wit disgrac'd with the Graces,

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure—
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.