love poetry

When worthless grandeur fills th' embellish'd urn,
No poignant grief attends the sable bier;
But when distinguish'd excellence we mourn,
Deep is the sorrow, genuine is the tear.
Stranger! should'st thou approach this awful shrine,
The merits of the honour'd dead to seek;
The friend, the son, the Christian, the divine,
Let those who knew him, those who lov'd him, speak.

O let him in some pause of anguish say,
What zeal inflam'd, what faith enlarg'd his breast;
How glad th' unfetter'd spirit wing'd its way

The night is black and the forest has no end;
a million people thread it in a million ways.
We have trysts to keep in the darkness, but where
or with whom - of that we are unaware.
But we have this faith - that a lifetime's bliss
will appear any minute, with a smile upon its lips.
Scents, touches, sounds, snatches of songs
brush us, pass us, give us delightful shocks.
Then peradventure there's a flash of lightning:
whomever I see that instant I fall in love with.
I call that person and cry: `This life is blest!

In Bourgueil Gardens more than one of yore
Engraved loved names on bark with heavy stroke,
And many a heart 'neath Louvre's gold ceilings shook,
At flash of smile, with pride to very core.

What matters it? - their joy or grief e'ermore
Is stilled: they lie between four boards of oak,
Where under grass-grown cover nought has woke
Their torpid dust that feeds oblivion's shore.

All die. Mary, Helen, and thee, Cassandra, all
Your lovely forms to lifeless ashes fall,
- Nor rose nor lily sees the morrow's land -

'L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes.'
FRIENDSHIP, as some sage poet sings,
Is chasten'd Love, depriv'd of wings,
Without all wish or power to wander;
Less volatile, but not less tender:
Yet says the proverbs­'Sly and slow
'Love creeps, even where he cannot go;'
To clip his pinions then is vain,
His old propensities remain;

And she, who years beyond fifteen,
Has counted twenty, may have seen
How rarely unplum'd Love will stay;
He flies not­but he coolly walks away.

``With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,
Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots ;
Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue,
Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw.''

The suitors sinned, but with a fair excuse,
Whom all this elegance might well seduce;
Nor can our censure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

Oh, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age!

Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such

From Town fair Arabella flies,
The Beaux unpowder'd grieve,
The Rivers play before her eyes,
The Breezes softly breathing rise
The Spring begins to live.
Her Lovers swore they must expire
Yet quickly find their Ease,
For as she goes, their Flames retire
Love thrives before a nearer fire
Esteem by distant Rays.
Yet soon the Fair one will return
When Summer quits the Plain
Ye Rivers pour the weeping Urn,
Ye Breezes sadly sighing mourn,
Ye Lovers burn again.
'Tis constancy enough in Love

Thine is the gentle day of love,
When youths and virgins try their fate;
When, deep retiring to the grove,
Each feathered songster weds his mate.

With tempered beams the skies are bright,
Earth decks in smiles her pleasing face;
Such is the day that gave thee light,
And speaks as such thy every grace.

Whom Love has joined no man may put asunder,
And he has never joined those who can part:
Marriage is this, no more, howe'er priests moan;
The rest is words, mere words, and custom's vapour
The heart will brush aside as easily
As fancy paints a picture.