love poetry

Thou, with thy looks, on whom I look full oft,
And find therein great cause of deep delight,
Thy face is fair, thy skin is smooth and soft,
Thy lips are sweet, thine eyes are clear and bright,
And every part seems pleasant in my sight;
Yet wote thou well, those looks have wrought my woe,
Because I love to look upon them so.

For first those looks allured mine eye to look,
And straight mine eye stirred up my heart to love;
And cruel love, with deep deceitful hook,
Choked up my mind, whom fancy cannot move,

She was a maid of high degree,
And quite severely proper.
Each man she met, so proud was she,
Would love, despair, then drop her.

But there remained without demur,
When all the rest forsook her,
An amateur photographer,
And finally he took her.

It trembled off the keys,—a parting kiss
So sweet,—the angel slept upon his sword
Asthrough the gate of Paradise we swept,—
Partakers of creation's primal bliss!
—The air was heavy with the breath
Of violets and love till death.—
Forgetful of eternal banishment—
Deep down the dusk of passion-haunted ways,
Lost in the dreaming alchemies of tone,—
Drenched in the dew no other wings frequent,
Our thirsting hearts drank in the breath
Of violets and love in death.—
There was no world, no flesh, no boundary line,—

When bright Roxana treads the green,
In all the pride of dress and mien,
Averse to freedom, love, and play,
The dazzling rival of the day;
None other beauty strikes mine eye,
The lilies droop, the roses die.

But when, disclaiming art, the fair
Assumes a soft engaging air;
Mild as the opening morn of May,
Familiar, friendly, free and gay,
The scene improves where'er she goes,
More sweetly smile the pink and rose.

O lovely Maid! propitious hear,
Nor deem thy shepherd insincere;
Pity a wild illusive flame,

At a little grass-hut in the valley of the river,
Where a cloud seems born from a viney wall,
You will love the bamboos new with rain,
And mountains tender in the sunset.
Cranes drift early here to rest
And autumn flowers are slow to fade. . . .
I have bidden my pupil to sweep the grassy path
For the coming of my friend.

What state more sweete, more pleasant or more hie,
Then loues delight, where hartes doe ioyntly ioye?
If vyle suspect, feare and ielosie,
With gawling grudge did not the same annoy.
Yet where this sowre, with sweete somedeale doth blende,
Loues perfection oft it doth amende.

For thirst the water sauourie makes to seeme,
And after fasting, meate is had in price:
He knowes not peace, nor can thereof esteeme,
That in the warres hath neuer broke the Ice.
Hope is reuiude, and shakes of sorrowes past,

The crow sat on the willow tree
A lifting up his wings
And glossy was his coat to see
And loud the ploughman sings
I love my love because I know
The milkmaid she loves me
And hoarsely croaked the glossy crow
Upon the willow Tree
I love my love the ploughman sung
And all the field wi' music rung.

I love my love a bonny lass
She keeps her pails so bright
And blythe she t[r]ips the dewy grass
At morning and at night
A cotton drab her morning gown
Her face was rosey health

Here we meet i' the moon light hour
Here we stand by the sleeping flower
Where dew drops hang as silent shower
On each grass blade a pearl
The moon tells endymions tale
O'er the wild rose hedge i' the grassy vale
While fondly I stand by the mossy rail
And clasp my lovely girl.

In ivy tree sung the dove
O'er the old pond gleams the calm o' love
From the cloudless moon above
Where I clasp my bonny girl
Her heart pants like a new taen bird
This white doe singled from the herd
I kiss and not a thorn leaf's stirred

Your voice, that once was wont to go before us,
Calling our steps, as Pan his flocks in Spring,
Faltered at clash of War's discordant chorus
And ceased to sing.

Though, thro' the night of turmoil and of sorrow,
No ling'ring melody has touched our ear,
Yet have we waited, knowing that the morrow
Should find you near.

The morning breaks! and from your lonely dwelling
You haste to greet us! Echoing sweet and strong,
We hear, with outstretch'd arms and bosom swelling,
The old, glad song.

Æternall love! what 'tis to love thee well,
None, but himselfe, who feeles it, none can tell.
But oh, what to be lov'd of thee as well,
None, not himselfe, who feeles it, none can tell.