love poems

There's a wideness in God's mercy,
Like the wideness of the sea;
There's a kindness in His justice,
Which is more than liberty.

There is welcome for the sinner,
And more graces for the good;
There is mercy with the Saviour;
There is healing in His blood.

For the love of God is broader
Than the measure of man's mind;
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.

If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at His word;
And our lives would be all sunshine
In the sweetness of our Lord.

Then Daphnis strikes the note of one that plaineth,
Whose Love is not the Love he hoped to find;
A Love which after blandishment disdaineth
To bless the heart too readily resigned.
Slight snares indeed are they which Eros feigneth,
For well he knows that lover's eyes are blind,
But none the captured beast more keenly paineth
Than Love's entrapment cruelly unkind.
All things have grief at times. When high winds shake it,
The grove is grieved with plaintive murmurings;
So grieves the woodland bird when fowlers take it,

Of the Father's love begotten Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega, He the source, the ending he,
Of the things that are, that have been, And that future years shall see.

This is he whom heav'n-taught singers Sang of old with one accord,
Whom the Scriptures of the prophets Promised in their faithful word;
Now he shines, the long-expected; Let creation praise its Lord.

O ye heights of heav'n, adore him Angel hosts, his praises sing;
All dominions, bow before him, And extol our God and King;

At setting day and rising morn,
—Wi' soul that still shall love thee,
I'll ask o' Heaven thy safe return,
—Wi' a' that can improve thee.
I'll visit aft the birken bush
—Where first thou kindly tauld me
Sweet tales o' love, and hid my blush,
—Whilst round thou didst infauld me.

To a' our haunts I will repair,
—By greenwood, shaw, or fountain,
Or where the summer day I'd share
—Wi' thee upon yon mountain:
There will I tell the trees an' flooers,
—From thoughts unfeigned an' tender;

For now, love thou, I rede, Christ, as I thee tell:
And with Angels take thy stead; that joy look thou nought sell!
In earth thou hate, I rede, all that thy love may fell:
For Love is stalworth as the death, Love is hard as hell.

Love is a light burden, Love gladdeth young and old;
Love is without pine, as lovers have me told;
Love is a ghostly wine, that makes men big and bold:
Of Love shall he nothing tyne that it in heart will hold.

But fleshly love shall fare as doth the flower in May

Long have I dreamed of love's adventure,
Long have I sung of love's desire,
Songs that I sang with red lips laughing,
Hot with the flame of borrowed fire.

Now I have felt your arms about me,
Now that my lips on your lips have lain,
Mute with the memory of your kisses,
How shall I sing of love again?

He was the first to welcome Spring;
Adventurous, he came
To wake the dreaming buds and sing
The crocus into flame.

He loved the morning and the dew;
He loved the sun and rain;
He fashioned lyrics as he flew
With love for their refrain.

Poet of vines and blossoms, he;
Beloved of them all;
The timid leaves upon the tree
Grew bold at his glad call.

He sang the rapture of the hills,
And from the starry height
He brought the melody that fills
The meadows with delight.

“Teach me, love, to be true;
Teach me, love, to love;
Teach me to be pure like you.
It will be more than enough!

“Ah, and in days to come,
Give me, my seraph, too,
A son nobler than I,
A daughter true like you:

“A son to battle the wrong,
To seek and strive for the right;
A beautiful daughter of song,
To point us on to the light!”

The moon is in love with the nightingale,
And the nightingale worships the rose;
But the red rose bleeds for the young and pale
Queen of the garden close.

The young queen turns to a singing clown
Whose lips have a single tune;
She leans to him like a ray bent down. …
But he is in love with the moon.

How much do you love me, a million bushels?
Oh, a lot more than that, Oh, a lot more.

And tomorrow maybe only half a bushel?
Tomorrow maybe not even a half a bushel.

And is this your heart arithmetic?
This is the way the wind measures the weather.