love poetry

Oh had I the wings of a dove!
Far, far from the world would I fly,
And seek a new home for my love
In those happier regions on high.

I am weary of this lower earth,
Its turmoils, its hopes, and its fears;
The mourning that follows its mirth,
Its mirth that is sadder than tears!

But there is a world yet to come,
By God's presence eternally blest,
Where the good shall inherit a home,
And the weary for ever shall rest.

Oh had I the wings of the dove!
Far, far from the world would I fly,

I am not moved to love thee, my Lord God,
By the heaven thou hast promised me;
I am not moved by the sore dreaded hell
to forbear me from offending thee.

I am moved by thee, Lord; I am moved
at seeing thee nailed upon the cross and mocked;
I am moved by thy body all over wounds;
I am moved by thy dishonor and thy death.

I am moved, last, by thy love, in such a wise
that though there were no heaven I still should love thee,
and though there were no hell I still should fear thee.

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost
Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.

Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practiced it,
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency

See, see, mine own sweet jewel,
See what I have here for my darling:
A robin-redbreast and a starling.
These I give both, in hope to move thee—
And yet thou say'st I do not love thee.

I sat wi' my love, and I drank wi' my love,
And my love she gave me light;
I'll give any man a pint o' wine
To read my riddle right.

I do not love thee, Dr Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell.

I gaze across the distant hills,
Thy coming to espy;
Beloved, haste, the day grows late,
The sun sinks down the sky.

All the old loves I followed once
Are now unfaithful found;
But a sweet sickness holds me yet
Of love that has no bound!

Love that the sensual heart ne'er knows,
Such power, such grace it brings,
Which sucks desire and thought away
From all created things.

O make me faithful while I live,
Attuned but to thy praise,
And may no pleasure born of earth

The daughters of the nation,
With purpose great and grand,
To dreary isolation
Went out upon the land;
A national oblation,
This patriotic band.

The daughters of the nation
Went out at love's behest,
With firm determination
To settle in the west;
Through bush fire's desolation,
With babies at the breast.

Undaunted by the wild men,
Beyond protection's ken,
To where nor road nor line ran,
Glad went they with their men
To take the seal of sun-tan,
Beside their valiant men.

'T IS true, one half of woman's life is hope
And one half resignation. Between there lies
Anguish of broken dreams,—doubt, dire surprise,
And then is born the strength with all to cope.
Unconsciously sublime, life's shadowed slope
She braves; the knowledge in her patient eyes
Of all that love bestows and love denies,
As writ in every woman's horoscope!
She lives, her heart-beats given to others' needs,
Her hands, to lift for others on the way
The burdens which their weariness forsook.
She dies, an uncrowned doer of great deeds.

WHEN the Virgin bore a child,
Man to God was reconcil'd:
Righteousness and Love could meet
At an Infant Saviour's feet:
Mercy was Religion's part,
And the Temple was the heart;
Poverty had breath to live,
And Resentments to forgive;
Love to enemies could roam,
Never absent from its home;
And the wounded heart could melt
For the hand whose blow it felt.

Had Redemption told no more,
Well might Kings the Child adore,
And Philosophy disclaim
All its impious Learning's fame.
But above the reach of thought