love poetry

All the whole world is living without war,
And yet I cannot find out any peace.
O God! that this should be!
O God! what does the earth sustain me for?
My life seems made for other lives' ill-ease:
All men look strange to me;
Nor are the wood-flowers now
As once, when up above
The happy birds in love
Made such sweet verses, going from bough to bough.

And if I come where other gentleman
Bear arms, or say of love some joyful thing—
Then is my grief most sore,
And all my soul turns round upon me then:

We'll cover Love with roses,
And sweet sleep he shall take.
None but a fool supposes
Love always keeps awake.
I've known loves without number.
True loves were they, and tried;
And just for want of slumber
They pined away and died.

Our love was bright and cheerful
A little while agone;
Now he is pale and tearful,
And—yes, I've seen him yawn.
So tired is he of kisses
That he can only weep;
The one dear thing he misses
And longs for now is sleep.

We could not let him leave us

Back men shall look, considering all my song:
As we now look towards Helen, or the face
Of that eternal Beatrice whose grace
Crowned the Italian bard, and made him strong.
Back men shall glance, throughout the ages long;
And women's hearts shall struggle hard to trace
Those perfect woman's features that I place
Herein for ever,—safe from time and wrong.

Our early love-flowers are eternal things,
Though on the earth so soon they passed away
With tremulous sighing in their snowy wings,

Sweetest illusion that our fancy greeteth
Ah woud thou wert as fancy pictures thee
Brightest idea that this dark world meeteth
& sweetest shadow of Eternity
Woud thou live on as thou wert born to be
The care beguiler of lifes weary hour
Woud fancy with reality agree
Nor meet each other wi such withering power
Twere sweetness then unmingld wi the sour
Tho morning sunbeams meet with clouds that lour
Tho brightest noons of[t] darkest nights succeed
Yet will the morning find her freshning power

My Muse in Meads has spent her many houres,
Sitting, and sorting severall sorts of flowers,
To make for others garlands; and to set
On many a head here, many a Coronet:
But, amongst All encircled here, not one
Gave her a day of Coronation;
Till you (sweet Mistresse) came and enterwove
A Laurel for her, (ever young as love)
You first of all crown'd her; she must of due,
Render for that, a crowne of life to you.

Three days—three nights—with wondering ear
A spiritual voice I heard.
It caroled sweet, it caroled clear,
A strange unearthly Word.

Oh, solemn mirth! Oh, laughter deep!
It seemed a voice in my own breast.
Three days—three nights—it broke my sleep
And triumphed without any rest.

Passionate utterance! Speech divine!
It talked! It murmured! All night long
That mystic tenderness spoke on,
And pierced me with its Heavenly song.

Three days—three nights—I heard it sing,
The voice of that Interior Dove.

I must tell you, my dear,
I'm in love with him, vastly!
Twenty thousand a year,
I must tell you, my dear!
He will soon be a peer—
And such diamonds!—and, lastly,
I must tell you, my dear,
I'm in love with him, vastly!

Canst thou be true across so many miles,
So many days that keep us still apart?
Ah, canst thou live upon remembered smiles,
And ask no warmer comfort for thy heart?

I call thy name right up into the sky,
Dear name, O surely she shall hear and hark!
Nay, though I toss it singing up so high,
It drops again, like yon returning lark.

O be a dove, dear name, and find her breast,
There croon and croodle all the lonely day;
Go tell her that I love her still the best,
So many days, so many miles, away.

Yea , love, I know, and I would have it thus,
I know that not for us
Is springtide Passion with his fire and flowers,
I know this love of ours
Lives not, nor yet may live,
By the dear food that lips and hands can give
Not, Love, that we in some high dream despise
The common lover's common Paradise;
Ah, God, if Thou and I
But one short hour their blessedness might try,
How could we poor ones teach
Those happy ones who half forget them rich:
For if we thus endure,
'Tis only, love, because we are so poor.

But, Song, arise thee on a greater wing,
Nor twitter robin-like of love, nor sing
A pretty dalliance with grief—but try
Some metre like a sky,
Wherein to set
Stars that may linger yet
When I, thy master, shall have come to die
Twitter and tweet
Thy carollings
Of little things,
Of fair and sweet;
For it is meet,
O robin red!
That little theme
Hath little song,
That little head
Hath little dream,
And long

But we have starry business, such a grief