love poetry

O bare your throat, Lynnette, — said he —
O bare your bosom so soft, and white,
That my lips are longing to close on tight:
O bare them full for my eyes to see,
For there's never a sight
So fair elsewhere to ravish me!

Great God, thou madest her fair to desire,
As fair as a dream in the fairest sleep
That ever arose, and awoke to weep
The man that it tortured with flakes of fire
Of desire to steep
His soul for a whole hour there and — expire.

And you're here, Lynnette, and I hold you, dear!

And wherefore does the student trim his lamp,
And watch his lonely taper, when the stars
Are holding their high festival in heaven,
And worshipping around the midnight throne?
And wherefore does he spend so patiently,
In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming hours
Of youth and joyance, when the blood is warm,
And the heart full of buoyancy and fire?

The sun is on the waters, and the air
Breathes with a stirring energy; the plants
Expand their leaves, and swell their buds, and blow,

" I love my Love in the days of Spring,
With her I'll go a-garlanding,
A-garlanding in the merry May,
Laughing and singing all the day.
We roam the woods, we trace the streams,
Our waking thoughts are bright as dreams;
No bee on the blossom, no lark in the sky,
Is happier than my love and I."

I love to swing in the garden-bowers,
Under the branches all alone; —
I've heard your speeches, full of flowers,
Till I am weary of the hours —
So, prithee, babbler, get you gone.
Can you not leave me to myself?

Dearling of these, of future times the glory;
Branch royal sprung from many a regal stem;
On whose fair structure written is the story
Of Nature's chiefest skill, World's choicest gem,
Wit's richest cabinet, Virtue's best array,
Centre where lines of all hearts' loves do meet:
Sweet ground, whereon the Muses love to play;
Ripe in wit, though green in years, of form most sweet.
Scotland's fair fruit, England's great hope, France's love,
Ireland's awe, Cambria's joy, Great Britain's fame,
Abridgment of all worth. The mighty Jove,

Mine eye with all the deadly sins is fraught:
First Proud, sith it presumed to look so high;
A watchman being made, stood gazing by,
And Idle, took no heed till I was caught:
And Envious, bears envy that my thought
Should in his absence be to her so nigh:
To Kill my heart, mine eye let in her eye,
And so consent gave to a murder wrought:
And Covetous, it never would remove
From her fair hair, gold so doth please his sight:
Unchaste, a bawd between my heart and love:
A Glutton eye, with tears drunk every night.

Love is the link, the knot, the band of unity;
And all that love, do love with their beloved to be.
Love only did decree,
To change his kind in me.
For though I loved with all the powers of my mind,
And though my restless thoughts their rest in her did find,
Yet are my hopes declined,
Sith she is most unkind.
For since her beauty's sun my fruitless hope did breed,
By absence from that sun I hoped to starve that weed;
Though absence did indeed
My hopes not starve, but feed.

Oh faithless world, and thy most faithless part,
A woman's heart!
The true shop of variety, where sits
Nothing but fits
And fevers of desire, and pangs of love,
Which toys remove.
Why was she born to please, or I to trust
Words writ in dust?
Suff'ring her eyes to govern my despair,
My pain for air,
And fruit of time rewarded with untruth,
The food of youth.
Untrue she was, yet I believed her eyes,
Instructed spies;
Till I was taught, that love was but a school
To breed a fool

I've learned, in dream or legend dark,
That all love-letters purged with fire,
Drawn in one constellated spark,
To heaven aspire.

To-night there streams across the sky
An unfamiliar reef of stars;
Are those the letters you and I
Thrust through the bars?

In tears of joy they once were read,
In tears of suffering slowly burned;
And now to stars hung overhead
Can each be turned?

O leaves too warm to be discreet,
O panting words that throbbed too loud
With starry laughter now you meet

We'll praise thee, Lord! forever;
Thou reignest, King of kings;
Thy wondrous love and favor,
Each ransom'd captive sings:
We'll celebrate thy glory
With all thy saints above,
And tell the joyful story,
Of thy redeeming love.

Oh ye are dull, ye skies,
A gloom hath o'er you roll'd,
A sorrow on me lies
Too mighty to be told;
The glory of Nature dies,
And all her heart is cold.

He whom I love is false;
The sweetest vow he swore,
His changeful mind recalls
Never, oh nevermore;
Day darkens, and life palls,
And sickens at its core.

His love's last flickering gleam
In his cold heart has died;
" But yet, if I could deem
My passion satisfied,
With friendship and esteem,
He'd give me both," he cried.