love poetry

In praise of love, upon my mind
Samplers I'll make to be,
As lovers long ago designed
Emblems of courtesy,
Threading in warm and frosty wools
Their wisdom's calendars and rules.

He errs to think those hands were set
All spinster-like and cold,
Who spelt a scarlet alphabet,
And birds of blue and gold,
And made immortal garden-plots
Of daisies and forget-me-nots.

The bodkins wove an even pace,
Yet these are lyrics too,
Breathing of spectral lawn and lace,
Old ardours to renew,

Drink , in the glory of youth;
love, crowned with roses of summer:
So be it only with me
be mad, be wise as thou listest.

AUTHOR of pardon, J ESU Christ,
Extend Thy love to us, and deign
To show Thy mercy upon us,
And cleanse our hearts from every stain.

Most tender and most gracious Lord,
Thou knowest whereof man is made;
Thou knowest whereunto he falls,
If thou withdraw thy saving aid.

My every thought to Thee is clear,
My inmost soul unveiled to Thee; —
Disperse and drive away the dreams
Of worldliness and vanity.

We wander exiled here below,
Through this sad vale of sin and strife;

Dear and incomparable
Is that love to me
Flowing out of the woodlands,
Out of the sea;
Out of the firmament breathing
Between pasture and sky,
For no reward is cherished here
To reckon by.

It is not of my earning,
Nor forfeit I can
This love that flows upon
The poverty of man,
Though faithless and unkind
I sleep and forget,
This love that asks no wage of me
Waits my waking yet.

Of such is the love, dear,
That you fold me in,
It knows no governance

Blue skies are over Cotswold
And April snows go by,
The lasses turn their ribbons
For April's in the sky,
And April is the season
When Sabbath girls are dressed,
From Rodboro' to Campden,
In all their silken best.

An ankle is a marvel
When first the buds are brown,
And not a lass but knows it
From Stow to Gloucester town.
And not a girl goes walking
Along the Cotswold lanes
But knows men's eyes in April
Are quicker than their brains.

It's little that it matters,

In the clatter of the train
Is a promise brisk and bright.
I shall see my love again!

I am tired and fagged and fain;
But I feel a still delight
In the clatter of the train,

Hurry-hurrying on amain
Through the moonshine thin and white —
I shall see my love again!

Many noisy miles remain;
But a sympathetic sprite
In the clatter of the train.

Hammers cheerful: — that the strain
Once concluded and the fight,
I shall see my love again.

Yes, the overword is plain, —

On his Lute .

T HE line of Atreus will I sing;
To Cadmus will I tune the string:
But, as from string to string I move,
My lute will only sound of Love .

The cords I change through every screw,
And model the whole lute anew.
Once more, in song, my voice I raise,
And, Hercules , thy toils I praise:
My lute does still my voice deny,
And in the tones of love reply.

Ye heroes then, at once farewel:
Loves only echo from my shell.

My love to me is always kind:
She neither storms, nor is she pined;
She does not plead with tears or sighs,
But gentle words and soft replies —
Good earnest of the thought behind.

They say the little god is blind,
They do not count him quite too wise;
Yet he, somehow, could bring and bind
My love to me.

And sweetest nut hath sourest rind?
It may be so; but she I prize
Is even lovelier in mine eyes
Than good and gracious to my mind.
I bless the fortune that consigned
My love to me.

This Posture, and these Tears, that Heav'n might move,
In vain I use in Favour of my Love:
And while thus prostrate at her Feet I lye,
Like some fair Rock she stands, that tow'ring high,
Seems deaf to those sad Murmurs, which below
The plaintive Waters utter, as they flow.

We love in youth, and plight our vows
To love till life departs;
Forgetful of the flight of time,
The change of loving hearts.

To-day departs, to-morrow comes,
Nor finds a weed away;
But no to-morrow finds a man
The man he was to-day.

Then weep no more when love decays,
For even hate is vain; —
Since every heart that hates to-day,
To-morrow loves again.