love poems

I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began,—
I loved my friend.

Belovèd, till the day break,
Leave wide the little door;
And bless, to lack and longing,
Our brimming more-and-more.

If love a scanted portion,
That we should hoard thereof?
Oh, call unto the deserts,
Belovèd and my Love!

I'm going to laugh, I'm going to laugh,
I'm going to laugh,
Ha-ha!
E'en though the harvest be but chaff,
I'm going to laugh,
Ha-ha!
For laughter fills the heart with joy,
And kills the troubles that annoy,
And brings to age hopes of the boy—
Ha-ha!

I'm going to sing, I'm going to sing,
I'm going to sing,
Tra-la!
In face of sneer, and jeer, and fling,
I'm going to sing,
Tra-la!
For numbers rout the hosts of wrong,
And fill the spirit with a throng
Of joyous thoughts the whole day long—

No lovelier song was ever heard
Than the notes of the Southern Mocking-Bird
When leaf and blossom are wet with dew
And the wind breathes low the long night through.
O music for grief! It comes like a song
From a voice in the stars; and all night long
The notes flow. But you must live in the South,
Where the clear moon kisses with large cool mouth
The land she loves, in the secret of night,
To hear such music—the soul-delight
Of the Moon-Loved Land.

When gentle twilight softly closes
The door of day, and the sun-fed roses

Who will hear me? Whom shall I lament to?
Who would pity me that heard my sorrows?
Ah, the lip that erst so many raptures
Used to taste, and used to give responsive,
Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely;
And it is not thus severely wounded
By my mistress having caught me fiercely,
And then gently bitten me, intending
To secure her friend more firmly to her:
No, my tender lip is crack'd thus, only
By the winds, o'er rime and frost proceeding,
Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me.
Now the noble grape's bright juice commingled

When the sixties are outrun,
And the seventies nearly done,
Or the eighties just begun;
May some young and happy man,
Wiser, kinder, nobler than
He who tenders this one, bring
You the real Magic Ring.

This one may have pleasant powers;
Charming idle girlish hours
With its tales from faerie bowers;
Tinting hopeful maiden dreams
With its soft romantic gleams;
Breathing love of love and truth,
Valour, innocence and ruth.

But may that one bless the life
Of the woman and the wife

In Eastern lands they talk in flowers,
And they tell in a garland their loves and cares:
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers,
On its leaves a mystic language bears.

The rose is the sign of joy and love,—
Young, blushing love in its earliest dawn;
And the mildness that suits the gentle dove
From the myrtle's snowy flower is drawn.
Innocence shines in the lily's bell,
Pure as a heart in its native heaven;
Fame's bright star, and glory's swell,
By the glossy leaf of the bay are given.

Of life my love a riddle makes,
All sweetness when I please her;
A lily when the whim she takes,
A tiger when I tease her!

With kisses oft of shy surprise,
She smiles in fond love-languor;
Sometimes with frowns and flashing eyes,
She looks superb in anger!

A checkered path of glooms and gleams,
Fate to our feet hath given;
One half our life a jungle seems,
The rest, a little Heaven!

With words as sharp as claws she tears
My heart-strings all unheeding,
Then soothes me with her lily airs,

If I were still that man, worthy to love,
Of whom I have but the remembrance now,
Or if the lady bore another brow,
To hear this thing might bring me joy thereof.
But thou, who in Love's proper court dost move,
Even there where hope is born of grace,—see how
My very soul within me is brought low:
For a swift archer, whom his feats approve,
Now bends the bow, which Love to him did yield,
In such mere sport against me, it would seem
As though he held his lordship for a jest.
Then hear the marvel which is sorriest:—

My love is good, my love is feäir,
She's comely to behold, O,
In ev'rything that she do wear,
Altho' 'tis new or wold, O.
My heart do leäp to see her walk,
So straïght do step her veet, O,
My tongue is dum' to hear her talk,
Her vaice do sound so sweet, O.
The flow'ry groun' wi' floor o' green
Do bear but vew, so good an' true.

When she do zit, then she do seem
The feäirest to my zight, O,
Till she do stan' an' I do deem,
She's feäirest at her height, O.
An' she do seem 'ithin a room