love poetry

Matter,
with this look
I wed thee
and become
thy very
attribute.
I shall be
thy faithful
spouse,
true
to thy
nature,
for I love
thee
more than Durer
loved

If you love me, come and be
In my heart of hearts and see
How I think of naught but thee!

If you hate me, tell me so,
I should love you still, I know,—
Hate to love will sometimes grow.

If you neither love nor hate,
For your grace I ne'er will wait;
You will never be my fate!

Music has charms the savage breast to move,
And songs are Syrens that invite to love.

O DEARER to my thankful heart
Than all the circling sun surveys!
Thy presence only can impart
Light, peace, and gladness to my days.

Beneath thy soul-reviving ray,
Ev'n cold affliction's wintery gloom
Shall brighten into vernal day,
And hopes and joys immortal bloom.

Vain world, be gone with all thy toys;
I have no room for trifles here:
My heart aspires to nobler joys;
Thy fairest glories disappear.

Bright realms of bliss, where Jesus reigns,
My wish, my care, my hope invite:

On my account, to grief a ceaseless prey,
Dost thou a sympathetic anguish prove?
I would not wish to live another day,
If my recovery did not charm my love:
For what were life, and health, and bloom to me,
Were they displeasing, beauteous youth! to thee?

No seas again shall sever;
No desert intervene;
No deep and flowing river
Shall roll its tide between.

No bleak cliffs upward towering,
Shall bound our eager sight;
No tempest darkly lowering,
Shall wrap us in its night.

Love, and unsevered union
Of soul with those we love,
Nearness and glad communion
Shall be our joy above.

No dread of wasting sickness,
No thought of ache or pain,
No fretting hours of weakness,
Shall mar our peace again.

No death our homes o'ershading,

Yes, the gods are dumb and dead,
But the bobolink sings on!
And the bluebird, overhead,
Pipes his joy when Day has won
Fair Aurora's blushing face,
Hidden in a cloudy lace.
While the pipe of Pan is still,
Let the new world have its will!
Listen to the robin's playing,
On the maple's top a-swaying,
Ah, so proud of that one nest,—
Puffing out his scarlet vest,—
Piper of the dress parade
In sunrise glow or twilight shade.

Yes, the gods are dumb and dead;
Never naiad from the rushes

Must be God's warders hearken every sigh,
Draw close and lovingly around the old;
The glories on the going summer lie,
On the spent sun attend the hosts in gold.

We played at love and went our way,
Careless and free, that far-off winter day.
It seemed a brave adventure, or a dream.
How could we know that love was born that day!

How could we know that love hid in a game?
That through the lips of coquetry a flame
Would leap and burn, consuming all the dross
And welding us in Love's enduring flame?

To-day I hold thee close and search thy face
To see if I might find one mocking trace
Of that wild mood that toyed with destiny—
And in thine eyes I only see—my face!

Fond Lunatick forbeare. Why dost thou sue
For thy Affection's Pay ere it is due?
Love's Fruites are Legall use; and therfore may
Be only taken on the Marriage day.
Who for this Interest too early call,
By that Exaction loose the Principall.

Then gather not those immature delights,
Untill their riper Autumne thee invites.
He that Abortive Corne cutts off his Ground,
No Husband, but a Ravisher is found.
So those that reap their Love, before they Wed,
Do in effect but Cuckold their own Bed.