love poems

Wolde God that it were so
As I coude wishe betwixt us two!

The man that I loved altherbest
In al this contré, est other west,
To me he is a strange gest:
What wonder is't though I be wo?

When me were levest that he shold dwell,
. . . . . .
He wold nought say ones farewell
When time was come that he most go.

In places ofte when I him mete,
I dare nought speke, but forth I go;
With herte and eyes I him grete—
So trewe of love I know no mo.

As he is myn herte love,

Stir—
Shake off sleep.
Your eyes are the soul of clear waters—
Pigeons
In a city street.

Suns now dead
Have tucked away of their gold for your hair:
My buried mouth still tastes their fires.

A tender god built your breasts—
Apples of desire;
Their whiteness slakes the throat;
Their form soothes like honey.

Wake up!
Or the song-bird in my heart
Will peck open the shell of your dreams.
. . . . . . . . . .
Sleep, my own,
Soaring over rivers of fire.
Sleep, my own,

Accept, kind Sir, all I can give,
My wishes that you'll deign to live;
Nor doubt you'll meet some lovely fair,
By far more worthy of your care;
Who will reward your ardent flame,
With what Louisa dare not name;
By what is sanction'd by above,
A reciprocal mutual love.
Then spurn the maid you think unkind,
And tear her image from your mind;
Let Hope no longer be caress'd,
Within thy far too-constant breast.
Let sweet revenge her rage impart,
To pluck the viper from your heart.
May some kind nymph your love return,

Down in a green and shady bed,
—A modest violet grew.
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
—As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
—Its color bright and fair;
It might have graced a lovely bower,
—Instead of hiding there.

Yet thus it was content to bloom,
—In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffuse a sweet perfume,
—Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go
—This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
—In sweet humility.

Mye love toke skorne my servise to retaine
Wherein me thought she usid crueltie:
Sins with good will I lost my libretye
To followe her wiche causith all my payne.
Might never care cause me for to refrayne
But onlye this wiche is extremytie,
Gyving me nought, alas, not to agree
That as I was her man, I might remayne.
But sins that thus ye list to ordre me
That wolde have bene your servaunte true and faste,
Displese the not, my doting dayes bee paste,
And with my losse to leve I must agre;
For as there is a certeyne tyme to rage,

Ah ! could I but forget
Her beauty, her sweet tone
And talking, and that lovely look at one,
My martyrdom, I think, were ended yet.

But ah! I cannot tear myself apart:
And great simplicity
Is hope in me;
Only such thrall
Gives one the heart
To go through all

And how could I forget
Her beauty, her sweet tone
And talking, and that lovely look at one?
My martyrdom 's too sweet.

Did love sojourn with you long,
Many days or few?
It was one with Time itself,
That was all I knew.

Was it sacred or profane,
Was it false or true?
It was bitter at the core,
That was all I knew.

I thought I loved,—no form of earth,
A soul, a visioned shape of air,
The teeming heart and fancy's birth,
The image of all good and fair;
It had a life, a place, a home,
Had smile and glance and voice and tone;
Like green fields in the ocean's foam,
'T was with me still when all alone.

There was a Heaven upon its brow,
An Eden in its happy eye;
It charmed,—the sage may tell me how;
It still has lived, it will not die,—
In pain and pleasure, weal and woe,
Has always been my heart's fond goal,

That light blood-loving weasel, a tongue of yellow
Fire licking the sides of the gray stones,
Has a more passionate and more pure heart
In the snake-slender flanks than man can imagine;
But he is betrayed by his own courage,
The man who kills him is like a cloud hiding a star.

Then praise the jewel-eyed hawk and the tall blue heron;
The black cormorants that fatten their sea-rock
With shining slime; even that ruiner of anthills
The red shafted woodpecker flying,
A white star between blood-color wing-clouds,

Perhaps it is not love, said I,
That melts my soul when Flavia's nigh;
Where wit and sense like hers agree,
One may be pleased, and yet be free.

The beauties of her polish'd mind
It needs no lover's eye to find;
The hermit freezing in his cell
Might wish the gentle Flavia well.

It is not love—averse to bear
The servile chain that lovers wear;
Let, let me all my fears remove,
My doubts dispel—it is not love.

Oh! when did wit so brightly shine
In any form less fair than thine?