love poetry

Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove,
Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
The launching of the coloured moths of Love.
Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone
We bound about our irreligious brows,
And fettered him with garlands of our own,
And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
And pour our blood upon his altar, here
Henceforward is a grove without a name,

'T WAS now the hour, when love of home melts through
Men's hearts at sea, and longing thoughts portray
The moment when they bade sweet friends adieu;
And the new pilgrim now, on his lone way,
Thrills as he hears the distant vesper bell,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day.

In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose,
Arnaut, great master of the lore of love,
First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart,
Since she was deaf when simpler staves he sang,
And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme,
And in this subtler measure hid his woe.

“Harsh be my lines,” cried Arnaut, “harsh the woe
My lady, that enthorn'd and cruel rose,
Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme!”
But through the metre spake the voice of Love,
And like a wild-wood nightingale he sang

Ah! love!
I shall not seek to penetrate
Your webbed gauze
Nor tease my heart
By queries deep,
But hold you tenderly;
The day is evening,
And I must cull my flowers

V

I love the winter moon,
bright and crisp at the tip of plum trees,
vying in beauty with Feng I's six-fold blossoms.
The jade round and jeweled powder
illuminate each other,
summoning the poet from his dream of paradise.

How love whom we see not, and cannot see
With mortal sight, the Invisible, Unknown?
To highest angel still a mystery,
Who nearest stands before his awful throne.
Yet by the worlds we see is God revealed,
On earth below and in the starry sky;
The Invisible Spirit, else from man concealed,
Reveals his goodness, power, to every eye.
And by his son, who did his image bear,
The image of his mercy and his grace,
He doth his love, a Father's love declare,
That we, though sinful, yet might see his face.

Love is the key of life and death,
Of hidden heavenly mystery:
Of all Christ is, of all He saith,
Love is the key.

As three times to His Saint He saith,
He saith to me, He saith to thee,
Breathing His Grace-conferring Breath:
“Lovest thou Me?”

Ah, Lord, I have such feeble faith,
Such feeble hope to comfort me:
But love it is, is strong as death,
And I love Thee.

Love is alone the worthy law of love:
All other laws have presupposed a taint:
Love is the law from kindled saint to saint,
From lamb to lamb, from dove to answering dove.
Love is the motive of all things that move
Harmonious by free will without constraint:
Love learns and teaches: love shall man acquaint
With all he lacks, which all his lack is love.
Because Love is the fountain, I discern
The stream as love: for what but love should flow
From fountain Love? not bitter from the sweet!
I ignorant, have I laid claim to know?

Said Winter to the Rose:
“When first my cold breath blows,
Your gentle reign is done.”
But said the Rose quite fearless:
“New splendid buds and peerless
Are waiting for the sun.”

Said Winter to my love:
“With fur and muff and glove
Guard thou thyself, or die.”
But said my love: “What folly!
Though flowers be dead, the holly
Is bright against the sky.”

Said Winter unto me:
“Take heed, arise and flee;
Thy strength is spent. Beware!”
Said I: “My love is near me;
Her bright eyes soothe and cheer me;