love poetry

He did a deed, a gracious deed—
He ministered to men in need;
He bound a wound, he spoke a word
That God and every angel heard.

He did a deed, a loving deed—
Oh, souls that suffer and that bleed,
He did a deed, and on his way
A bird sang in his heart all day.

Love hath his poppy-wreath,
—Not Night alone.
I laid my head beneath
—Love's lilied throne:
Then to my sleep he brought
—This anodyne—
The flower of many a thought
—And fancy fine:
A form, a face, no more;
—Fairer than truth;
A dream from death's pale shore;
—The soul of youth:
A dream so dear, so deep,
—All dreams above,
That still I pray to sleep—
—Bring Love back, Love!

In cloudy legends of the dawn of years,
Or sculptured verse on shard or shattered stone,
The oldest lore is still of love and tears,
Of wild dark wars and cities overthrown,
And blows and bitter deeds and mad defeat,
Whereof the burden is, “Yet love is sweet.”

And from all ways, where men have dwelt and died,
From nations dwindled to a minstrel's song,
A sound of voices, mingled, multiplied,
A rumor of delight, despair and wrong,
Of sorrows infinite and strange amaze,
Waft down the troubled winds of many days.

Syn I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Syn I am free, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and saye this and that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
Syn I fro Love escaped am so fat.

Love hath my name ystrike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For evermo; ther is non other mene.

Syn I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Syn I am free, I counte him not a bene.

The stars are gleaming far and bright;
The winds are keen and cold;
The woolly flocks, all snowy white,
Are cuddling in the fold.
But in my heart such longing lies—
Bright star of yonder shore!
Oh, look from out the shining skies
And hear me as of yore!

The world is wrapped in slumber deep,
All other hearts at rest,
While mine, too aching full for sleep,
Keeps up its lonely quest.
And still my prayers in ardor rise
And climb up more and more—
Oh, bend from out the starry skies
And kiss me as of yore!

Dreams come from Jove, the poet says;
But as I watch the smile
That on thy lips now softly plays,
I can but deem the while,
Venus may also send a shade
To whisper to a slumbering maid.

What dark-eyed youth now culls the flower
That radiant brow to grace,
Or whispers in the starry hour
Words fairer than thy face?
Or singles thee from out the throng
To thee to breathe his minstrel song?

The ardent vow that ne'er can fail,
The sigh that is not sad,
The glance that tells a secret tale,

I have no beauty, oh, my Love,
Save what is given by Thee,
Save only when Thy loving eyes
See loveliness in me.

I do not wear it every day
As other women do.
It is a light—it will not stay—
It only comes for You.

Yet I would rather have it so,
A secret thing untamed,
Than have it trapped by alien eyes
Or be too lightly named.

Love, when the sweetness of your love
Beholds a grace in me,
It is as if a golden dove
Lit in a wild-wood tree.

Into the mystery of life,
Dear Lord, I cannot see;
I only know that I exist,
Made and upheld by Thee.

The brooding presence of Thy love
Encircles me about,
Nor leaves me room for any fear,
Nor place for any doubt.

I know Thee in the cloud by day
As in the fire by night;
Both lead me to my promised home,
The land of my delight.

The future cannot yield me proof
More tender or divine,
Than has the past, that all Thy thoughts
To meward are benign.

And backward if I look, I own

I pray you if you love me, bear my joy
A little while, or let me weep your tears;
I, too, have seen the quavering Fate destroy
Your destiny's bright spinning—the dull shears
Meeting not neatly, chewing at the thread,—
Nor can you well be less aware how fine,
How staunch as wire, and how unwarranted
Endures the golden fortune that is mine.
I pray you for this day at least, my dear,
Fare by my side, that journey in the sun;
Else must I turn me from the blossoming year
And walk in grief the way that you have gone.

She never giveSherself for love? No doubt.
She has to buy her loves or do without!