love poems

I thank thee, dear, for words that fleet,
For looks that long endure,
For all caresses simply sweet
And passionately pure;

For blushes mutely understood,
For silence and for sighs,
For all the yearning womanhood
Of grey love-laden eyes.

Oh how in words to tell the rest?
My bird, my child, my dove!
Behold I render best for best,
I bring thee love for love.

Oh give to God the love again
Which had from him its birth,—
Oh bless him, for he sent the twain
Together on the earth.

LO, SONG and sleep I love. For song's susurrus
Is the soul's wine throughout the weary days:
And silent sleep, restorer of decays,
Smooths from the fretted brow the deepening furrows;
'Tis the true Fountain of Jouvence, unfound
By knight or troubadour in the far forest ground.

That absolute love which many women feel,
But men how few! Not winds which icily
Breathe freshness underneath a twilight sky,
When swift Apollo's burning chariot-wheel
Flies westward, bear to mortals such delight
As that most perfect love, unselfish, infinite.

More of the Garden than the Portico
Was his philosophy who dwelt therein.
He was not fain 'mid the mad world to win
Power or renown from the sparse overflow
Of Fortune's horn. To him three things were fair—
True Love, unfettered Song, and the wooing Summer-air.

A SAFFRON crescent in an opal sky
He watched—while she into her wine-dark hair
Braided white violets—whiter than despair,
And half as sweet as love. There fluttered by
Wings of the merle, gay caroller, who sleeps
Upon a beechen bough in the far forest deeps.

Love which is greater than oneself is like
The glow-worm,
A thing which is impossible to hide
Even though you wrap it up.

It was the hour of dew and light;
In heaven a conflagration cold
Of roses burned, instead of clouds;
There was a rain of pearls and gold.

Then deep within a flowering grove
I saw thee, love, reclined at ease,
And thou wast languishing and pale,
And sighing like a summer breeze,

Plucking a blossom's leaves apart
With fingers fair as lilies are;
Thine eyes, the temples of love's fire,
Were fixed upon the heavens afar.

I marvelled that thy fingers soft,
Wherein the haughty rose was pressed,

If I were a rich man, would you smile at me?
Can your bosom that swells your blouse so firmly be bought
And all the smooth warmth of your nakedness?
You are straight and beautiful,
Your hair is black and you have slender ankles.
I have seen the bloom and colour of your face on peaches;
I have felt the grace of your walk in Grecian statues;
And, as you go, you look back over your shoulder sideways;
Coquette! you were born in the age that bore me,
And almost I love you, my dark goddess!

But if I came to you and said to you, I am rich;

I love not her, however, fair,
With vanity who fir'd,
Shows in her dress, her words, her air,
The wish to be admir'd.

But her I love, of modest mien,
Who no vain passion knows,
Who never wishes to be seen,
Or seen, with blushes glows.

Not her, who, with obtrusive air,
Courts all who're passing by;
But her, who beauty makes her care,
To please her lover's eye.

In vain she seeks the breast to move,
Who trusts to beauty's art;
Give me, if you would have me love,
A woman with a heart.

Not of your voice, now still, that used to sing,
I think,—now all your spirit's house lies dead—
Not of your little, lovely, eager head:
I think more of your hands than anything.…
Not of your face, sweet like a star, now lying
Immobile, nor those lips, no more replying
With unexpectedness,—those eyes, whence came
An eager dancing life could never tame.…
Oh, no, it is those little, lovely hands
That bring down all my hopes like sliding sands,
Those little, lovely hands, all arts in one,
In which the soul of motion lies undone.…