love poetry

O Love! my drooping Genius raise
Beyond these Organs Sight;
So high from Earth now let me soar,
That this dull World may be discern'd no more,
But lost in Streams of Light.
O mighty Love! my Genius raise;
New Tune my Lyre, refine my Lays;
Teach me thy wondrous Works to praise,
And to adore thy Might.
With lofty Thoughts, with heav'nly Fire,
Do thou my humble Muse inspire,
That she an Hymn may sing,
Unto the God of Love, unto th' Almighty King!

When Love doth lie a-dreaming
His weapons you may spy—
His arrows by him gleaming,
And eke his bow doth lie.

But when he is assailing
Some maiden's tender heart,
It is all unavailing
To think to see his dart.

His bunch of fatal lances,
And eke his mighty bow,
Display but in his glances,
Or in his smile do show.

Who'd think that eyes so pleading
Had ever, mocking, laughed?
Or his red lips, receding,
Could speed such fatal shaft?

O maids, who hope to capture

Draw not away thy hands, my love,
With wind alone the branches move,
And though the leaves be scant above
The Autumn shall not shame us.

Say: Let the world wax cold and drear,
What is the worst of all the year
But life, and what can hurt us, dear,
Or death, and who shall blame us?

Ah, when the summer comes again
How shall we say, we sowed in vain?
The root was joy, the stem was pain,
The ear a nameless blending.

The root is dead and gone, my love,
The stem's a rod our truth to prove;

Love, the winged lord of art,
That all sweet song inspires,
First-fruits from the gentle heart
Evermore requires.

Not in every field he sows,
Never sows he long,
But the swiftest path he goes
Blossoms into song.

Catch the flying seed who may,
Ere the god go by;
Little love has come my way—
Little song have I.

'T IS now you must your Virtue prove;
And fly (dear Friend) from what you love.

The look of love alarms
Because tis filld with fire
But the look of soft deceit
Shall win the lovers hire

I gaze out,
but still
the sky is empty
of all
but the autumn mist—
as aimless
as my passion,
with no place to go.

The moon is up, and soft and bright,
And tender is her light in June,
For is this not a lovely night,
And is not that a splendid moon?

Oh, that you knew how often, love,
When I was in the tropic sea,
My eyes were on the moon above
While thought was wandering back to thee.

And when we lost the polar star,
Far southward of the central line,
To you I struck the soft guitar,
And was your moonlight song like mine?

For mine was love, as still it is;
And shall it be forever crost,

By all my chains, my burdens and my fetters,
I plead with you to ease their galling weight,
And with the soothing solace of your letters,
To teach me resignation to my fate.
Since you no more may breathe love's fervent story,
I would be bride of heaven. Oh, tell me how!
Awake in me an ardor for that glory,
The love divine, so lacking in me now!
As once your songs related all love's pleasures,
Relate to me the rapture of your faith.
Unlock the storehouse of your new-found treasures,
And lend a radiance to my living death.

“As many as I love.”—Ah, Lord, Who lovest all,
If thus it is with Thee why sit remote above,
Beholding from afar, stumbling and marred and small,
So many Thou dost love?

Whom sin and sorrow make their worn reluctant thrall;
Who fain would flee away but lack the wings of dove;
Who long for love and rest; who look to Thee, and call
To Thee for rest and love.