love poems

I VOW to thee, my country—all earthly things above—
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love,
The love that asks no question: the love that stands the test,
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best:
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And there's another country, I've heard of long ago—
Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know—
We may not count her armies: we may not see her King—

Deare Love, alas, how have I wronged thee,
That ceaselesly thou still dost follow me?
My heart of Diamond cleare, and hard I find,
May yet be pierc'd with one of the same kind,
Which hath in it ingraven a love more pure,
Then spotlesse white, and deepe still to endure,
Wrought in with teares of never resting paine,
Carv'd with the sharpest point of curs'd disdaine.
Raine oft doth wash away a slender marke,
Teares make mine firmer, and as one small sparke
In straw may make a fire: so sparkes of love

Where servants against masters do rebel,
The commonweal may be accounted hell.
For if the feet the head shall hold in scorn.
The city's state will fall, and be forlorn.
This error, London! waiteth on thy state!
Servants, amend; and masters, leave to hate!
Let Love abound; and Virtue reign in all,
So God will hold his hand, that threatneth thrall!

In whatso love-questing, wherein, Excepting fireflaught, there is not,
For amaze, if a harvest consume, Sure reason in aught there is not.

A bird, to whose heart it ne'er fell With sorrow to make acquaintance,
A branch on the tree of his life, With leaves of mirth fraught, there is not.

No help in Love's workshop there is For infidelity's presence:
What fuel is there for Hell-fire, If Boulehéb naught there is not?

In the soul-sellers' canon good works In toping consist and good breeding;

I love summer, the season of flowers,
When the birds sing beneath the bloom;
But I consider winter more pleasing,
For more enjoyment is accorded me;
And when one sees one's source of joy
It is right and proper
That one should be more charming and cheerful.

Now I have joy and am happy,
And my honor has been restored,
And never will I go elsewhere,
And I will not seek others' winnings,
For now I know indeed
That whoever waits is wise,
And whoever frets is a fool.

I have long been in distress,

What are poets? Are they only drums commanding?
—Trumpets snarling, moving men to hate and ravage?
Were their songs of war the snares of Trade demanding
—Lives, and binding men to gods senile and savage?

What are soldiers? Only power, to be broken
—On the wheels of Business when there is no battle?
“War to end war,” was that but falsely spoken?
—Whom has war set free? Have rifles stopped their rattle?

Many suffer hunger while the few still plunder.
—Dreams of peace and brotherhood are all undone.

O, ye who gave to Ireland
Your love and life and all,
Who leaped into the flames of death
When rang her anguished call;
Pray, pray for us this Easter morn
That we may worthy be
Of Ireland's past, of all who died
On Ireland's Calvary.

Ere yet the dawn
Pushed rosy fingers up the arch of day
And smiled its promise to the voiceless prime,
Love sat and patterns wove at life's swift loom.
He flung the suns into the soundless arch,
Appointed them their courses in the deep,
To keep His great time-harmonies and blaze
As beacons in the ebon fields of night.
Love balanced them and held them firm and true,
Poised 'twixt attractive and repulsive drift
Amid the throngs of heaven. What though this power
Was ever known to us as gravity,

Take Time while Time doth last,
Mark how Fair fadeth fast,
Beware if Envy reign,
Take heed of proud Disdain.
Hold fast now in thy youth,
Regard thy vowed Truth,
Lest when thou waxeth old
Friends fail and Love grow cold.

Love's a fever of the mind,
'Tis a grief that none can cure
Till the nymph you love prove kind:
She can give you ease again,
She can best remove the pain
Which you for her endure.

Be not ever, then, repining,
Sighing, denying, canting, whining;
Spend not time in vain pursuing;
If she does not love you—make her;
If she loves you—then forsake her;
'Tis the modish way of wooing.