love poetry

Love is the soothing voice of gods
To which men ever list.
Love is the ease of soul's travail
And sorrow's alchemist.

When we went out to take the air,
My dearie love, my heart's delight
Had crimson poppies in her hair,
But O, her cheeks were white.

We watched the sunset doff his crown,
The silver moon shine overhead;
Then I looked up, and she looked down,
And ne'er a word we said.

And then it seemed a thousand years;
And then I said, “It's fair and mild,”
And looking down I saw my dear's
Blue eyes, and O, they smiled.

We sat as still as still could be
And smiled till love was clean confessed,

Autumn is weary, halt, and old;
Ah, but she owns the song of joy!
Her colours fade, her woods are cold.
Her singing-bird's a boy, a boy.

In lovely Spring the birds were bent
On nests, on use, on love, forsooth!
Grown-up were they. This boy's content,
For his is liberty, his is youth.

The musical stripling sings for play
Taking no thought, and virgin-glad.
For duty sang those mates in May.
This singing-bird's a lad, a lad.

What fault could be so heinous,
What word give Love annoyance,
That wrath should over-reign us
And wrest away Love's joyance?

Though fortune over-shine us,
Though fate forego her promise,
What chance can unentwine us,
Or take Love's bounty from us?

We shall be wise, and careful
To turn from Folly's boothful;
Our love will make us prayerful,
And prayer will make us truthful.

For truth is Love's ambition,
And you and I have weighed it;
And prayer is Love's petition
And you and I have made it.

1. At a gay reception given in a mansion grand and old, A
young man met the girl he used to know;. . . . . And
once again the story of his honest love he told, The
love he'd cherished since long years ago. . . . . But she
sighed and sadly murmur'd that her childhood love was past, That
soon another man she was to wed. . . . . The
lover knew the other man already had a wife. He
bade farewell, but as he went, he said: . . . . .
2. The maiden did not understand the fable that he told, A
church was soon arrayed in holy state,. . . . .A

Approach with reverence. There are those within
Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove,
From them flow all the decencies of life;
Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self
Admired, not loved: and those on whom they smile,
Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful,
Shine forth with double lustre.

Why is it thus with me, false Love,
Why is it thus with me?
Mine enemies might so have dealt;
I fear'd it not of thee!

Thou wast the thought of all my thoughts,
Nor other hope had I:
My life was laid upon thy love;
Then how could'st let me die?

The flower is loyal to the bud,
The greenwood to the spring,
The soldier to his banner bright,
The noble to his king:

The bee is constant to the hive,
The ringdove to the tree,
The martin to the cottage-eaves:
Thou only not to me.

'Tis said that Love when all is done
Is but “Two Hearts That Beat As One,”—
Which I deny, for I have found
When Love to visit me comes round
The moment he comes through the door
He makes my heart beat like ten score,
And even more!

If I were teaching Love at school,
And to define it I were tasked,
I'd say
That 'tis an element, by no means cool,
That comes our way,
Both night and day,
Unsought, unasked,
And as a rule
Makes Man a Hero or a Fool,
And best of all it is so rich
He cares not which!

“Love me, sweet girl! thy love is all I ask!”
“Love thee?” she laughing cries; “I love thee not!”
“Why, then, I'll cease to love thee on the spot,
Since loving thee is such a thankless task!”

The gift is small,
The love is all.