love poems

What is it to educate a human soul?
Is it to teach it how to read, and write,
Grammar, Arithmetic; is this the whole?
Can these alone teach it to live aright?
Such knowledge is but means unto an end,
Too oft to earth's brief, narrow sphere confined;
But higher thoughts there are, that these transcend,
Motives enduring as the human mind;
The love of knowledge, human and divine,
The love of goodness, purity, and truth;
Happy the teacher, who can souls incline
To virtuous ends, in early days of youth;

My love is as endless
as the waves of the Sea of Ariso
that, driven by fierce winds,
never cease their breaking

Love still is Love, and doeth all things well,
Whether He show me heaven or hell
Or earth in her decay
Passing away
On a day.

Love still is Love, tho' He should say, “Depart,”
And break my incorrigible heart,
And set me out of sight
Widowed of light
In the night.

Love still is Love, is Love, if He should say,
“Come,” on that uttermost dread day;
“Come,” unto very me,
“Come where I be,
Come and see.”

Love still is Love, whatever comes to pass:
O Only Love, make me Thy glass,

She never comes to me
She promised me a thousand times
That she would dearly dearly love me
That in sickness & in health
Others present others absent
Whilst air was round & heaven above me
She would be present as my life
My holy gentle tender wife

She promised in my secret ear
When none but God & I could hear
That she would cleave to me forever
There was one will between us
There was one heart within us
And God upon his children smiled
As we the hours with love beguiled

And now I am alone

Beautie's no other but a lovely Grace
Of lively colours, flowing from the face.

Why did I wrong my judgment so,
As to affect, where I did know
There was no hold for to be taken,
That which her heart thirsts after most?
If once of it her hope can boast,
Straight by her folly is forsaken.

Thus while I still pursue in vain,
Methinks I turn a child again;
And of my shadow am a-chasing,
For all her favours are to me,
Like apparitions which I see—
Yet ne'er come near th' embracing.

Oft have I wish'd that there had been
Some Almanac whereby to 've seen,

Alas! what Pains, what racking Thoughts he proves,
Who lives remov'd from her he dearest loves!
In cruel Absence doom'd past Joys to mourn,
And think on Hours that will no more return!
Oh! let me ne'er the Pangs of Absence try,
Save me from Absence, Love, or let me die.

Speak not of passion, for my heart is tired,
I should but grieve thee with unheeding ears;
Speak not of hope, nor flash thy soul inspired
In haggard eyes, that do but shine with tears.
Think not I weep because my task is o'er;
This is but weakness—I must rest to-day:
Nay, let me bid farewell and go my way,
Then shall I soon be patient as before.
Yes, thou art grateful, that I nursed thee well;
This is not love, for love comes swift and free:
Yet might I long with one so kind to dwell,
Cared for as in thy need I cared for thee:

My Love is neither young nor old,
Not fiery hot, nor frozen cold;
But fresh and fair as springing briar,
Blooming the fruit of love's desire.

Not snowy white nor rosy red,
But fair enough for shepherd's bed;
And such a Love was never seen
On hill or dale or country green.

Our love is not a fading, earthly flower:
Its wingëd seed dropped down from Paradise,
And, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower,
Doth momently to fresher beauty rise:
To us the leafless autumn is not bare,
Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green.
Our summer hearts make summer's fulness, where
No leaf, or bud, or blossom may be seen:
For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie,
Love,—whose forgetfulness is beauty's death,
Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I
Into the infinite freedom openeth,