love poetry

Dear! let me dream of love,
Ah! though a dream it be!
I'll ask no boon, above
A word, a smile, from thee:
At most, in some still hour, one kindly thought of me.

Sweet, let me gaze awhile
Into those radiant eyes!
I'll scheme not to beguile
The heart, that deeper lies
Beneath them, than yon star in night's pellucid skies.

Love, let my spirit bow
In worship at thy shrine!
I'll swear, thou shalt not know
One word from lips of mine,
An instant's pain to send through that shy soul of thine.

Is not Love here, as 'tis in other Clymes,
And diff'reth it, as doe the sev'rall Nations?
Or hath it lost the Vertue, with the Times,
Or in this Iland alt'reth with the Fashions?
Or have our Passions lesser pow'r then theirs,
Who had lesse Art them lively to expresse?
Is Nature growne lesse pow'rfull in their Heires,
Or in our Fathers did she more transgresse?
I am sure my Sighes come from a Heart as true,
As any Mans, that Memory can boast,
And my Respects and Services to you
Equall with his, that loves his Mistres most:

I heare some say, this Man is not in love:
Who? can he love? a likely thing, they say;
Reade but his Verse, and it will eas'ly prove.
O, judge not rashly (gentle Sir) I pray,
Because I loosely trifle in this sort,
As one that faine his Sorrowes would beguile:
You now suppose me all this time in sport,
And please your selfe with this Conceit the while;
Yee shallow Censures, sometime see yee not,
In greatest Perils some Men pleasant be,
Where Fame by Death is onely to be got,
They resolute? so stands the case with me;

With Fooles and Children good Discretion beares;
Then honest People, beare with Love and Me,
Nor older yet, nor wiser made by yeeres,
Amongst the rest of Fooles and Children be:
Love still a Baby, playes with Gawdes and Toyes,
And like a Wanton, sports with ev'ry Fether;
And Ideots still are running after Boyes,
Then Fooles and Children fitt'st to goe together:
He still as young as when he first was borne,
No wiser I, then when as young as he.
You that behold us, laugh us not to scorne,
Give Nature thankes, you are not such as we:

And would'st thou reach, rash scholar mine,
Love's high unruffled state?
Awake! thy easy dreams resign,
First learn thee how to hate:—

Hatred of sin, and Zeal, and Fear,
Lead up the Holy Hill;
Track them, till Charity appear
A self-denial still.

Dim is the philosophic flame,
By thoughts severe unfed:
Book-lore ne'er served, when trial came,
Nor gifts, when faith was dead

Behold, a Silly, tender Babe,
In freezing winter night,
In homely manger trembling lies,
Alas! a piteous sight.
The inns are full, no man will yield
This little pilgrim bed;
But forced is He with silly beasts
In crib to shroud His head.
Despise Him not for lying there;
First what He is enquire;
As orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Weigh not His crib, His wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by Him feed;
Weigh not His mother's poor attire,
Nor Joseph's simple weed.
This stable is a Prince's court,

This lovely morn the dewdrops flash
Like diamonds on the grass—
A blaze of sparkling jewels! But
The autumn wind, alas!
Scatters them as I pass.

When love is bright and whole again,
I'll sing like the bee's weather,
I'll set my colours up again
Like the cock-pheasant's feather,
I'll find a note to make me one
With lyric birds that sing the sun.

I'll fill my songs with palmer's buds
And sprigs of thorn for Whitsunday,
And they shall dance as willow rods,
And shine with garlands of the may,
I'll be a theme that takes the spring
From bushes where the blackbirds sing.

I'll walk among my sheep again
And turn my steps to numbers,

Today, your being so considerate
Offends, but less than had it been spring
Candle-trickling tears I shed this night
Are not because you bring her home at dark
Her dance mat come autumn will fold away,
Her concert fan will gather sheets of dust
Since time began new love supplants the old,
So why does old love hate to greet the new?
A sliver of moon peeps into her flowery bed,
Slight chill creeps under her shawl and scarf.
Autumn will come when all things wither,
And touch her body with nature's stealth.

There is a life of endless bliss,
Far in the spirit sphere,
A better home by far than this,
Of purer love than here.

Peace, like a river broad and deep,
O'erflows that happy land,
And gales of heavenly rapture sweep
Along its blooming strand.

Celestial mansions, bright and fair,
In glorious grandeur rise,
The gardens of the Lord are there,—
The vales of paradise.

O let us tread the blessed road
Of goodness, truth and love,
Led by the spirit of our God,
To that pure home above.