love poetry

Ask me not how much I love you;
Be content!
If too much love were sin
You would but win
Some of my punishment.
Ask me not, but believe I merely love you.

If indeed I truly love you,
Never more
Will any harm come near,
Nor need you fear
My heart's voice at the door
Of your heart, whisp'ring, Open, sweet, I love you.

See! I cannot choose but love you
Soberly.
For, having felt your touch,
My pride in such
Familiarity
Warns me how he must worship who would love you.

Nay , not rewardless did your hero fall!
No pealing fame could match this great repose;
Death's grassy calm, after life's bugle call,
And love's white lily after war's red rose.

Light hearted, careless, shall I take my way,
When I to thee this being have resigned,
Well knowing where upon a future day,
With usurer's craft, more than myself to find.

Who is the maiden
Who is gathering flowers
And is not love-laden?
But she now would gather
A rose, the fair maiden,
And he of the garden
Besought for the favour,
If she is not love-laden.

Had the gods loved me I had lain
Where darnel is, and thorn,
And the wild night-bird's nightlong strain
Trembles in boughs forlorn.

Nay, but they loved me not; and I
Must needs a stranger be,
Whose every exiled day gone by
Aches with their memory.

This yearning heart (Love! witness what I say)
Enshrines thy form as purely as it may,
Round which, as to some spirit uttering bliss,
My thoughts all stand ministrant night and day
Like saintly Priests, that dare not think amiss.

O how shall I, unskilfu', try
The Poet's occupation?
The tunefu' Powers, in happy hours,
That whisper, inspiration,

Even they maun dare an effort mair
Than aught they ever gave us,
Or they rehearse in equal verse
The charms o' lovely Davies.—

Each eye it chears when she appears,
Like Phebus in the morning,
When past the shower, and every flower
The garden is adorning:
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore,
When winter-bound the wave is;
Sae droops our heart when we maun part

A prized memorial this slight work may prove
As bought in charity and given in Love.

Thrice happie Roses, so much grac't, to have
Within the Bosome of my Love your grave.
Die when ye will, your sepulchre is knowne,
Your Grave her Bosome is, the Lawne the Stone.

“T ELL me, kind Seer, I pray thee,
“So may the stars obey thee,
“So may each airy
“Moon-elf and fairy
“Nightly their homage pay thee!
“Say, by what spell, above, below,
“In stars that wink or flowers that blow,
“I may discover,
“Ere night is over,
“Whether my love loves me, or no,
“Whether my love loves me.”

“Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee
“Hath charms no gold could buy thee;
“Its stem enchanted,
“By moon-elves planted,
“Will all thou seek'st supply thee.
“Climb to yon boughs that highest grow,