love poetry

Light as love's smile the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving,
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel gayly leaping.

I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery, ere
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes

None ever was in love with me but grief.
—She wooed me from the day that I was born;
She stole my playthings first, the jealous thief,
—And left me there forlorn.

The birds that in my garden would have sung,
—She scared away with her unending moan;
She slew my lovers too when I was young,
—And left me there alone.

Grief, I have cursed thee often—now at last
—To hate thy name I am no longer free;
Caught in thy bony arms and prisoned fast,
—I love no love but thee.

‘Twas in the month of August, or the middle of July,
One evening I went walking, a fair maiden I did spy;
She was mournin' for her true love, who was in Amerikee,
Agh, divil a word I said to her, and she said the same to me!

Oh eies, leave of your weepinge,
Loue hath the thoughtes in keepinge
That maie content yee;
Let not this misconceivinge
Where comfortes are receyving
Causles torment yee

Clowdes threaten but a showre
Hope hath his happie howre
Thoughe longe in lastinge:
Time nedes must be attended
Loue must not be offended
With to muche hastinge

Yitt oh the painefull pleasure,
Wher loue attendes the leizure
Of loves wretehednes;
Where hope is but illusion
And feare but a confusion
Of loues happines.

Ye cats at midnight spit love at each other,
Who best feel the pangs of a passionate lover,
I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur,
If the business of Love be no more than to purr.
Old Lady Grimalkin with her gooseberry eyes,
Knew something when a kitten, for why she is wise;
You find by experience, the love-fit's soon o'er,
Puss! Puss! lasts not long, but turns to Cat-whore!
Men ride many miles,
Cats tread many tiles,
Both hazard their necks in the fray;
Only cats, when they fall
From a house or a wall,

Was ever yet the world so fair!
The long, sweet day! the tender night!
A fragrant thrill pervades the air—
Spring's ever newly waked delight.

It floods the azure realm above;
It quickens all the sod below;
It is the very soul of Love,
And song and bloom its overflow.

No living thing unconscious named
But knows the depth of this delight,
And filled with joy and unashamed
Leaves joy to fashion joy aright.

The bluebird's note is all his own;
The thrush one matchless song repeats;

H ELEN , by many loved, and loving not,
Helen, whose smiles are ever cold and sweet,
Art thou an ancient queen whom Time forgot,
And Death paused not to greet?
Helen, perchance thy perfect beauty came,
An heritage to make the world more fair,
From one who lived in Troy, and bore thy name,
And had such red-gold hair.

Thine eyes are like deep sea-water at night,
Thy mouth is as a flower that fears the sun,—
Burned pale once long ago by too great light,
Its singing all is done.

We saw and woo'd each other's eyes,
My soul contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice
By which our marriage grew divine.

Let wilder youths, whose soul is sense,
Profane the temple of delight,
And purchase endless penitence
With the stolen pleasure of one night.

Time's ever ours, while we despise
The sensual idol of our clay,
For though the sun do set and rise
We joy one everlasting day.

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shines innocent.

Who gives a gift to bind a friend thereby,
Doth set or put his gift to usury:
And he that gives a gift that is not free,
Give where he list, so that he give not me.
For bought and sold is friendship strange,
Who lives by selling, lives by change;
And he, that loves to change his friend,
Will turn to nothing in the end.

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
For if of our affections none finds grace
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power