love poems

Love knows best what to do with love:
As the tree knows best what to do with the fruit,
As the field knows best what to do with the harvest,
As the river knows best what to do with the tides,
As the sun knows best what to do with the light,
As today knows best what to do with tomorrow,
So does love know best what to do with love.
Love knows best what to do with love—
Knows better than the priest, knows better than the laws, what to do with love—
Yes, knows better than parents and counsellors what to do with love:

The tear which thou upbraidest
Thy falsehood taught to flow;
The misery which thou madest
My cheek hath blighted so:
The charms, alas! that won me,
I never can forget,
Although thou hast undone me,
I own I love thee yet.

Go, seek the happier maiden
Who lured thy love from me;
My heart with sorrow laden
Is no more priz'd by thee:
Repeat the vows you made me,
Say, swear thy love is true;
Thy faithless vows betray'd me,
They may betray her too.

But no! may she ne'er languish

Oh, is it not time that the Loved Ones, indeed, should relent,
That the covenant-breakers should turn them to faith and repent?

Do they never hear tidings of him who abideth forlorn,
The fire of chagrin in his breast, since they left him and went?

O would that my people but knew what hath happened to him,
The distraught for their love! They would pity his case and consent.

The Spring-season come is and green once again are the hills:
Yet hear I no warbling: what aileth the songstresses gent?

The nimble fancy of all beauteous Greece,
Fabled young Love an everlasting boy,
ThaTheld of nature an eternal lease,
Of childhood, beauty, innocence, and joy;
A bow he had, a pretty childish toy,
That would not terrify his mother's sparrows,
And 'twas his favourite play to sport his arrows,
Light as the glances of a wood-nymph coy,
O happy error! Musical conceit,
Of old idolatry, and youthful time!
Fit emanation of a happy clime,
Where but to live, to breathe, to be, was sweet,
And Love, tho' even then a little cheat,

Oh, I can jest with Margaret
And laugh a gay good-night,
But when I take my Helen's hand
I dare not clasp it tight.

I dare not hold her dear white hand
More than a quivering space,
And I should bless a breeze that blew
Her hair into my face.

'T is Margaret I call sweet names:
Helen is too, too dear
For me to stammer little words
Of love into her ear.

So now, good-night, fair Margaret,
And kiss me e'er we part!
But one dumb touch of Helen's hand,
And, oh, my heart, my heart!

I COULD never have the power
To love one above an hour,
But my head would prompt mine eye
On some other man to fly.
Venus, fix mine eyes fast,
Or, if not, give me all that I shall see at last.

Thy love shall tune this harsh world's noise,
And make its tangled wastes rejoice;
Shall through the darkness cast its ray
To glorify my lonesome way.

Thy love shall elevate my mind
And make me gentler with my kind;
Shall rule the motions of my blood,
And keep me pure and true and good.

Thy love shall plume my spirit's wings
To soar on high to nobler things;
Shall be my buckler in the strife,
And nerve me for the shocks of life.

Thy love shall be my firmest faith—
Shall even gild the gloom of death,

A lovely city in a lovely land,
Whose citizens are lovely, and whose King
Is Very Love; to Whom all Angels sing;
To Whom all saints sing crowned, their sacred band
Saluting Love with palm-branch in their hand:
Thither all doves on gold or silver wing
Flock home thro' agate windows glistering
Set wide, and where pearl gates wide open stand.
A bower of roses is not half so sweet,
A cave of diamonds doth not glitter so,
Nor Lebanon is fruitful set thereby:
And thither thou, beloved, and thither I

'Tis said that some have died for love:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found
In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn's side:
He loved--the pretty Barbara died;
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made:

"Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,

To bright-hair'd Ceres, and the lovely maid
Proserpina, my votive verse be paid.
List to my song, and with propitious powers
From every hostile inroad guard these towers.