love poems

I am a bohemian maid,
Blue eyed, fair and airy;
Would you know my name? my name
Is no name but Mary.

W HAT'S to you if I have fled,
Fled to love's embraces,
Eaten hips of eglantine,
Slept in thorny places.

W HAT'S to you, if I allow
Youths of love to chatter;
Let them rattle at my door,
Surely 'tis no matter!

I WILL marry—wherefore talk—
Wherefore talk, my mother;
Am I yet a year too young?
Must I wait another?

No! I'm young—and I am fair—
Gay—blue-eyed and airy—

Two things are there that I love most in this world and in myself;
In myself my two eyes, and in this world all fair creatures.
From the perfume of their tresses I am as one distracted;
Ever will he that has been snake-bitten be thus beside himself.
Looking at the beauty of fair women I have found my God,
Short is the distance between metaphor and fact.
When I gaze at a lovely face my eyes are never sated,
Every hair upon my head becomes as though an eye with looking.
Those of evil nature know nothing of love's troubles;

We never left our love unsaid,
But always made it plain with speech.
With words we cried it each to each;
Where only silences can reach
We thought by words to touch and tread;
With words our love was overspread,
With words, with words our hearts were wed!

We never left our love unsaid,
We never let it take its way
Unwatched and hid; too little dread
We had of love, of love's strange sway.
With words we watched our love decay,
With words we mourned it, with words we pled
And followed after where it fled

I must stand on tiptoe to reach your lips;
I must stand on tiptoe in my soul to reach you,
To reach the height of my own love—
It is what I want, to have you tall!

It is the season now to go
Into May's fairyland—
Where happy, hand in hand,
We two can watch the green buds grow,
And breathe the lilac breezes blow
Within the woods' wild loveliness.
Oh, come, my love, with me,
And lie 'neath yonder tree,
Whose shadows are a fond caress.

It is the season now for those
Who scent love's Spring.
The birds are caroling
Of youth that never has a close.
Our May shall be like to the rose
That never dies: Winter is o'er,
And happy, hand in hand,

Love is like a flowing river,
Broad and wondrous fair.
On its breast the sunbeams quiver,
Sparkling everywhere.
How the far cerulean mountains
Smile upon its birth,
As the happy-hearted fountains,
Laughing, dance to earth!

Dwell within its mystic shadows
Visions never told,
Purple isles, elysian meadows,
Realms of cloudy gold.
In its ruffled expanse glassing,
Wanders mutely by
All the holy whiteness, massing
Warm in yonder sky.

Titan power that stream possesses,
Ay, and sorely needs.

Come, dearest Julia! thou and I
Will knit us in so strict a tie,
As shall with greater pow'r engage
Than feeble charms of marriage:
We will be friends, our thoughts shall go,
Without impeachment, to and fro;
The same desires shall elevate
Our mingled souls, the selfsame hate
Shall cause aversion, we will bear
One sympathising hope and fear,
And for to move more close, we'll frame
Our triumphs and our tears the same;
Yet will we ne'er so grossly dare,
As our ignobler selves shall share;
Let men desire, like those above

Less hate and greed
Is what we need
And more of service true;
More men to love
The flag above
And keep it first in view.

Less boast and brag
About the flag,
More faith in what it means;
More heads erect,
More self-respect,
Less talk of war machines.

The time to fight
To keep it bright
Is not along the way,
Nor 'cross the foam,
But here at home
Within ourselves—to-day.

'Tis we must love
That flag above
With all our might and main;
For from our hands,

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers,
Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,
But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;
So turning to that boy divine,

T HERE'S a song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear.
And even amidst the grand and gay,
When Music tries her gentlest art
I never hear so sweet a lay,
Or one that hangs so round my heart,
As that song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,—
Even the hope, lingering now,
Like the last of the leaves left on