love poems

Lo, where the bird at rest
Twitters in careless ease upon her nest!
Throughout all storm wherewith the loud tree swings
Broods in the skyflier's breast the pride of wings.

Though soft leaves interlace,
Making a hiding-place,
The sheltered life within does not forget
How strong she is, how free, by Nature's right;
Though nest and foliage fall, her refuge yet
Remains, the boundless heaven's unpillared height!

So with the bridegroom in my soul to-day,
Rejoicing, free, a lover's mask I play.

Happy , art thou, darling insect,
Who, upon the trees' tall branches,
By a modest draught inspired,
Singing, like a monarch livest!
Thou possessest as thy portion
All that on the plains thou seëst,
All that by the hours is brought thee;
'Mongst the husbandmen thou livest,
As a friend, uninjured by them,
Thou whom mortals love to honour,
Herald sweet of sweet Spring's advent!
Yes, thou'rt loved by all the Muses,
Phœbus' self, too, needs must love thee;
They their silver voices gave thee,
Age can neversteal upon the.

'Tis heaven begun below
To hear Christ's praises flow,
In Zion, where his name is known;
What will it be above
To sing redeeming love,
And cast our crowns before his throne?

When we adore him there
We shall be void of fear,
For faith, nor hope, nor patience, need;
Love will absorb us quite,
Love, in the midst of light,
In God's eternal love shall feed.

Oh! what sweet company
We then shall hear and see,
What harmony will there abound,
When souls unnumber'd sing

True love is such a sweet and sacred thing!
When I am with the One who understands,
I need not touch her lips nor clasp her hands,
Just to be near her makes my glad heart sing—
True love is such a sweet and sacred thing!

True love is such a sweet and sacred thing
That sometimes, when I cannot have a word,
I feel as though her tenderness I heard,
A full communion that the thought may bring—
True love is such a sweet and sacred thing!

True love is such a sweet and sacred thing
That often when my ardent spirit stirs

When shall I find you, sweetheart,
That shall be and must be mine?
I seek, though the world divides us,
And I send you the secret sign.

There 's blood in the veins of morning,
So fresh it may well deceive,
When man goes forth as Adam,
And woman awaits him as Eve.

There 's an elvish spell in twilight
When the bats of Fancy fly,
And sense is bound by a question,
And Fate by the quick reply.

And the moon is an old enchantress,
With her snares of glimmer and shade,

I can forget so much at will:
That first walk in the snow,
The violet bed on the wet spring hill,
The song we both loved so;

Even the rapture of love's magic hour,
Even the anguish of love's disdain,
—But never, but never, the little white flower
We found one day in the rain.

Louise, have you forgotten yet
The corner of the flowery land,
The ancient garden where we met,
My hand that trembled in your hand?
Our lips found words scarce sweet enough,
As low beneath the willow trees
We sat; have you forgotten, love?
Do you remember, love Louise?

Marie, have you forgotten yet
The loving barter that we made?
The rings we changed, the suns that set,
The woods fulfilled with sun and shade?
The fountains that were musical
By many an ancient trysting tree—
Marie, have you forgotten all?

Here's a fine Declaration of Whimsical Love
That nor Beauty, nor Spirit, nor Virtue can move,
He would mortify none, lampoon'd he ten more,
For who but a Bawd will design on Threescore?

O! the white rose of friendship 'twixt us twain
Spreading out scentful; O! the frail, fresh leaves
Of fervid youth, that fights and fears and grieves
And laughs and loves and hopes through all its pain!

O! friend I am but poor for all my praise
And love of you, 'tis but a book I bring,
About that Land, where our dreams, wing to wing,
Drift seeking shelter from earth's sordid days.

O! friend whose soul is swift to understand
If life is difficult and cold and sad—
Some are together still … and some are glad

Long ago, in the young moonlight,
I lost my heart to a hero;
Strong and tender and stern and right,
Darker than night,
And terribler than Nero.
Heigh, but he was dear, O!

And there, to bind our fellowship,
I laughed at him; and a moment after.
I laughed again till he bit his lip,
For the test of love is laughter.

“Lord and master, look up!” I cried;
“I wreathe your brow with a laurel!
Gloom and wisdom and right and pride
Cast them aside,
And kiss, and cure our quarrel.