love poetry

Bend after bend, the long embankment,
lined with fallen flowers;
trees upon the eastern mountain
linked with lovely homes.
In one of them, a man opens a window
to get a better view;
smiling, he points where breezes ripple
the petals on the water.

We give to chivalry a separate age,
An age of fable, minstrel, & romance,
Of joust and joyance, ladies, knights, & lastly
Love the presiding deity of all:
Within whose temple shine the recorded deeds
Of those that dared & died, but soaring Fame
Has votaries no less numerous than Love's.

My Sandy gied to me a ring,
Was a' beset wi' diamonds fine;
But I gied him a far better thing,
I gied my heart in pledge o' his ring.

My Sandy O, my Sandy O,
My bony, bony Sandy O;
Tho' the love that I owe to thee I dare na show,
Yet I love my love in secret my Sandy O.

My Sandy brak a piece o' gowd,
While down his cheeks the saut tears row'd;
He took a hauf and gied it to me,
And I'll keep it till the hour I die.
My Sandy O &c.

They loo na me because I'm poor I' woolen hoes and clouted shoes
For poverty there's little cure But war it ever mine to chuse
I'd chuse the maid i' russet gown And loo's simplicity
Though finer roses bluim in town The kintra maid for me

And I myself wad be na mair Then on[l]ie what I am
mans complaint is sair His breeding na' but sham
Wha' ever tuck me for a knave Wud mar opinions sarely
I've often made a foemans grave And fought for Scotlands Charley

And dear I loo the land o' bruim And the throble bluiming rarely

That Love last long; let it thy first care be
To find a Wife, that is most fit for Thee.
Be She too wealthy, or too poore; be sure,
Love in extreames, can never long endure.

Trip and go, heave and ho,
Up and down, to and fro,
From the town to the grove,
Two and two, let us rove
A-maying, a-playing:
Love hath no gainsaying:
So merrily trip and go.

If we give love and sympathy
—Even to those who hate us
We fill them so with mystery
—They know not how to rate us.

If we give love and sympathy
—Even to those who hate us
We fill them so with mystery
—They know not how to rate us.

In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain,
Is my sweet, my love:

Is my love, is my desire,
And all my happiness.

Before the night must I see her
Or my little heart will break.

My little heart will not break,
For my lovely dear I have seen.

Fifty nights I have been
At the threshold of her door; she did not know it.

The rain and the wind whipped me,
Until my garments dripped.

Nothing came to console me
Except the sound of breathing from her bed.

E V'RY youth for love's sweet portion sighs,
Ev'ry maiden sighs to win man's love;
Why, alas! should bitter pain arise
From the noblest passion that we prove?

Thou, kind soul, bewailest, lov'st him well,
From disgrace his memory's saved by thee;
Lo, his spirit signs from out its cell:
B E A M AN, NOR SEEK TO FOLLOW M E .

So quietly love came,
I did not hear his name
Thro' the night;
Only silence fell,
Like a starry spell
Of light. . . .

There was no caroling
Of bird or trumpet-flare;
Only on the air
The sudden burst of Spring,
And in my heart a flame,
(So quietly love came!)