love poetry

The grateful heart for all things blesses;
Not only joy, but grief endears:
I love you for your few caresses,
I love you for my many tears.

Do and permit whate'er you will
With others, I shall love you stil.
Heaven grant we may not love the most
When to each other we are lost!

Rest of my heart! no verse can tell
My blissful pride, beloved by you;
Yet could I love you half so well
Unless you once had grieved me too?

Love , flying out of sight, o'ershadows me,
And leaves me cold as cold can be;
Farewell alasses! and no-mores! and you,
Sweetest and saddest word, adieu!

" FEAR God!" says Percival: and when you hear
Tones so lugubrious, you perforce must fear:
If in such awful accents he should say,
" Fear lovely Innocence!" you'd run away.

Fate ! I have askt few things of thee,
And fewer have to ask.
Shortly, thou knowest, I shall be
No more . . . then con thy task.

If one be left on earth so late
Whose love is like the past,
Tell her, in whispers, gentle Fate,
Not even love must last.

Tell her, I leave the noisy feast
Of life, a little tired;
Amidst its pleasures few possest
And many undesired.

Tell her, with steady pace to come
And, where my laurels lie,
To throw the freshest on the tomb

1

Who breathes to thee the holiest prayer,
O Love! is ever least thy care.
Alas! I may not ask thee why 'tis so . .
Because a fiery scroll I see
Hung at the throne of Destiny,
Reason with Love and register with Woe.

2

Few question thee, for thou art strong
And, laughing loud at right and wrong,
Seizest, and dashest down, the rich, the poor;
Thy scepter's iron studs alike
The meaner and the prouder strike,
And wise and simple fear thee and adore.

As evenen air, in green-treed Spring,
Do sheäke the new-sprung pa'sley bed,
An' wither'd ash-tree keys do swing
An' vall a-flutt'ren roun' our head:
There, while the birds do zing their zong
In bushes down the ash-tree drong,
Come Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce
Your vaice an' feäce can meäke vor me.

Below the budden ashes' height
We there can linger in the lew,
While boughs, a-gilded by the light,
Do sheen avore the sky o' blue:
But there by zetten zun, or moon
A-risen, time wull vlee too soon

True Love is but a humble, low-born thing,
And hath its food served up in earthen ware;
It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,
Through the everydayness of this work-day world,
Baring its tender feet to every flint,
Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray
From Beauty's law of plainness and content;
A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile
Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home;
Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must,
And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless,
Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth

I've neither Reserve or aversion to Man,
(I assure you Sophronia in jingle)
But to keep my dear Liberty, long as I can,
Is the Reason I chuse to live single,
My Sense, or the Want of it—free you may jest
And censure, dispise, or impeach,
But the Happiness center'd within my own Breast,
Is luckily out of your reach.
The Men, (as a Friend) I prefer, I esteem,
And love them as well as I ought
But to fix all my Happiness, solely in Him
Was never my Wish or my Thought,
The cowardly Nymph, you so often reprove,