love poems

If ever love had force in humaine brest?
If ever hee could move in pensive hart?
Or if that hee such powre could butt impart
To breed those flames whose heat brings joys unrest.

Then looke on mee; I ame to thes adrest,
I, ame the soule that feeles the greatest smart;
I, ame that hartles trunk of harts depart
And I, that one, by love, and griefe oprest;

Non ever felt the truth of loves great miss
Of eyes, till I deprived was of bliss;
For had hee seene, hee must have pitty show'd;

Truly poore Night thou wellcome art to mee:
I love thee better in this sad attire
Then that which raiseth some mens phant'sies higher
Like painted outsids which foule inward bee;

I love thy grave, and saddest lookes to see,
Which seems my soule, and dying hart intire,
Like to the ashes of some happy fire
That flam'd in joy, butt quench'd in miserie:

I love thy count'nance, and thy sober pace
Which evenly goes, and as of loving grace
To uss, and mee among the rest oprest

Like to the Indians, scorched with the sunne,
The sunn which they doe as theyr God adore
Soe ame I us'd by love, for ever more
I worship him, less favors have I wunn,

Better are they who thus to blacknes runn,
And soe can only whitenes want deplore
Then I who pale, and white ame with griefs store,
Nor can have hope, butt to see hopes undunn;

Beesids theyr sacrifies receavd's in sight
Of theyr chose sainte: Mine hid as worthles rite;
Grant mee to see wher I my offrings give,

Fairest, and still truest eyes
Can you the lights bee, and the spies
Of my desires?
Can you shine cleere for loves delight,
And yett the breeders bee of spite,
And jealous fires?

Mark what lookes doe you beehold,
Such as by jealousie are told
They want your love:
See how they sparcle in distrust
Which by a heat of thoughts unjust
In them doe move;

Learne to guide your course by art
Chang your eyes into your hart,
And patient bee
Till fruitles jealousie gives leave
By safest absence to receave

Venus unto the Gods a sute did move,
That since she was of love the godess stil'd
She only might the pouer have of love,
And nott as now a partner with her child,

The cause to this which stird the Godess milde
Was that of late her servant faulse did prove
Hurt as she sayd afresh by Cupid wilde,
And to a Nimph his passions did remove;

Or els that they would eyes unto him give
That hee might see, how hee his shafts did drive;
This they deny'd: For if hee blind did ill

And we have met but twice or thrice!—
Three times enough to make me love!—
I praised your hair once; then your glove;
Your eyes; your gown;—you were like ice;
And yet this might suffice, my love,
And yet this might suffice.

St. John hath told me what to do:
To search and find the ferns that grow
The fern seed that the faeries know;
Then sprinkle fern seed in my shoe,
And haunt the steps of you, my dear,
And haunt the steps of you.

You'll see the poppy pods dip here;
The bow-ball of the thistle slip,

O VAGRANT Love! do you come this way?
I hear you knock at the long-closed door
That turned too oft on its hinge before—
I am stronger now; I can say you Nay.

The vague, sweet smile on your lips to-day,
Its meaning and magic I know of yore:
O vagrant Love, do you come this way?
I hear your knock at the long-closed door.

But why your summons should I obey?
I listened once till my heart grew sore—
Shall I listen again, and again deplore?
Nay! Autumn must ever be wiser than May—

Happy : yea, happy for ever and aye!
Scarlet bursts through the eastern gray
And the night is past;
For a woman's lips and a woman's hair,
And the soul of her womanhood, wonderful, fair,
Are mine at last.

Dawn was near, but no whisper told
Why the stars went out and the world grew cold
As the void above;
When suddenly out of the darkness sprang
My passionate rose, and the whole world sang
Of love, of love.

Now happy, yea, happy for ever I stand,
The rose of passion within my hand,
And the day may close

Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping,
That lures the bird home to her nest?
Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,
To cuddle and croon it to rest?
What's the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,
Till it coos with the voice of the dove?
'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—
And the name of the secret is Love!
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,

Out of the day-glare, out of all uproar,
Hurrying in ways disquieted, bring me
To silence, and earth's ancient peace restore,
That with profounder vision I may see.
In dew-baptizing dimness let me lose
Tired thoughts; dispeople the world-haunted mind,
With burning of interior fire refined;
Cleanse all my sense: then, Love, mine eyes unclose.

Let it be dawn, and such low light increase,
As when from darkness pure the hills emerge;
And solemn foliage trembles through its peace
As with an ecstasy; and round the verge