love poetry

My God, wilt Thou accept, and will not we
Give aught to Thee?
The kept we lose, the offered we retain
Or find again.

Yet if our gift were lost, we well might lose
All for Thy use:
Well lost for Thee, Whose Love is all for us

The lips of Venus are as sweet
Though sipped within a London street,
And her rich hair
Is just as soft for lips to meet
In London air.

And Daphne's limbs are pure and white
Though darkness of a London night
Beholds them kissed,
Not skies with tints of sapphire bright
Or amethyst.

And Psyche's lips are no less red
In that two thousand years have fled
With all their flowers
Since her old namesake sweet was wed
In Southern bowers

And passion is no less divine

And do I waste my time
Scribbling of love to my beautiful queen
And is it idle to talk in prose & rhyme
Of one who at midnight & morning's prime
In daylight is fancied, in visions seen?
And do I forget the burning crown
That Glory should weave of light for me

She is a sweet and bonny thing
Not older than fifteen
Though old enough to wear a ring
But not the maidens gaudy thing
Could I but know the thoughts of her
In abscence all the day
As men tell money by the chink
I'd then know what to say.

I love to see her gown of green
Her breast of fairest clay
Her thoughts are purity within
Like th' pink inside o' may
And frae the ancle to the shin
She's like a bunch o' flowers
Lovely without & fair within
Like summers choices hours.

I know not why or whence he came
Or how he chanced to go;
I only know he brought me love,
And going—left me woe.

I do not ask that he turn back
Nor seek where he may rove,
For where woe rules can never be
The dwelling place of love.

For love went out the door of hope
And on and on has fled,
Caring no more to dwell within
The house where faith is dead.

Now when the spirit in us wakes and broods,
Filled with home yearnings, drowsily it flings
From its deep heart high dreams and mystic moods,
Mixed with the memory of the loved earth things:
Clothing the vast with a familiar face;
Reaching its right hand forth to greet the starry race.

Wondrously near and clear the great warm fires
Stare from the blue; so shows the cottage light
To the field labourer whose heart desires
The old folk by the nook, the welcome bright
From the house-wife long parted from at dawn—

Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.
The song I read, the book I close,
And fling away the yellow rose.
No matter! Always, East and West,
Will yellow roses still be pressed.

Within a book, unopened long,
I find a faded yellow rose,
It lies across a poet's song,
That tells of love and cruel wrong,
And on the margin of the page,
Are two initials, dim with age.

Stop running more. You must—indeed you shall.
See how your feet are hurt. Your breath comes fast
And all in vain. Light as you are, you see
I can outrun you, and these briers and brakes
That tear your tender feet will never harm
My horny hoofs. Why do you fly from me?
I mean no ill. Stop. Rest upon this bank,
Soft with green mosses, sprinkled with quaint flowers
And listen to me while you get your breath.
Bacchus is in the distant vale, so far
His cymbals scarcely reach us—far away
Silenus and his rout—they'll never hear

My heart was winter-bound until
I heard you sing:
O voice of Love, hush not, but fill
My life with Spring!

My hopes were homeless things before
I saw your eyes:
O smile of Love, close not the door
To paradise!

My dreams were bitter once, and then
I found them bliss:
O lips of Love, give me again
Your rose to kiss!

Springtide of love! The secret sweet
Is ours alone:
O heart of Love, at last you beat
Against my own!

I love the ruddy cheek, that glows
Bright as the crimson-flowering rose,
That in the Spring most sweetly blows;
But yet I love to see,
More than this cheek that brightly glows,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the arm of fairest snow,
Round as the tapering trees that grow,
Where streams in purest currents flow;
But yet I love to see,
More than this arm of fairest snow,
The eye that sparkles brilliantly.

I love the jetty, curling hair,
That floats around the bosom fair,