love poetry

O Lord, I am ashamed to seek Thy Face
As tho' I loved Thee as Thy saints love Thee:
Yet turn from those Thy lovers, look on me,
Disgrace me not with uttermost disgrace;
But pour on me ungracious, pour Thy grace
To purge my heart and bid my will go free,
Till I too taste Thy hidden Sweetness, see
Thy hidden Beauty in the holy place.
O Thou Who callest sinners to repent,
Call me Thy sinner unto penitence,
For many sins grant me the greater love:
Set me above the waterfloods, above

To love is heaven, and not to love is hell.—
To give sweet love away
Eternally and boundlessly is well.
For this alone I pray!

I ask the power of loving without bound:
No limit there should be.
If thine arms, love, may never close me round,
Let my arms cover thee!

Let my strong love and limitless embrace
Of fiery fervent heart
Be ever round about thee,—in each place;
Blessing, where'er thou art.

Let me on earth and through all worlds to be
Be just the one who so

There were four-and-twenty ladies dined i the Queen's ha,
And Jean o Bethelnie was the flower o them a'.

Four-and-twenty gentlemen rode thro Banchory fair,
But bonny Glenlogie was the flower that was there.

Young Jean at a window she chanced to sit nigh,
And upon Glenlogie she fixed an eye.

She called on his best man, unto him did say,
O what is that knight's name? or where does he stay?

‘He 's of the noble Gordons, of great birth and fame;
He stays at Glenlogie, Sir George is his name.’

“What ails my dearie Love? (the old nurse cried)
This bitter trouble now, my pretty dove,
In me confide.”

“He said my cheeks were thin, that I was pale,
And as I looked I saw his love within
Grow faint, and fail.

“Then when he touched my hand, my heart grew chill;
His touch was cold—I do not understand—
It used to thrill.

“Why should his love have failed that once was bright?
It was for love of him I sighed and paled,
And lost delight.

“I sighed for his return the livelong day,

Kupris, hither
Come, and pour from goblets of gold the nectar
Mixt for love's and pleasure's delight with dainty
Joys of the banquet.

Shall we make love
Indoors
On this night when the moon has begun to shine
Over the rushes
Of Inami Moor?

A maid of Christ entreateth me
That I for her a love-song write
By which most plainly she may see
The way to choose a faithful knight;
One that to her shall loyal be
And guard and keep her by his might.
Never will I deny her plea,
To teach her this be my delight.

Maiden, thou mayest well behold
How this world's love is but a race
Beset with perils manifold,
Fickle and ugly, weak and base.
Those noble knights that once were bold
As breath of wind pass from their place,
Under the mold now lie they cold,

Love he to morrow, who lov'd never;
To morrow, who hath lov'd, persever.
The Spring appears, in which the Earth
Receives a new harmonious Birth;
When all things mutual Love unites;
When Birds perform their nuptial rites;
And fruitful by her watry Lover,
Each grove its tresses doth recover;
Loves Queen to morrow, in the shade
Which by these verdant trees is made,
Their sprouting tops in wreaths shall bind,
And Myrtles into Arbours wind;
To morrow rais'd on a high throne,
Dione shall her Laws make known.

The Goddesse bade the Nymphs remove
Unto the shady Myrtle grove;
The boy goes with the maids, yet none
Will trust, or think love tame is grown,
If they perceive that any where
He Arrows doth about him bear.
Go fearlesse Nymphs, for love hath laid
Aside his Armes, and tame is made.
His weapons by command resign'd,
Naked to go he is enjoyn'd:
Lest he hurt any by his craft,
Either with flame, or bow, or shaft.
But yet take heed young Nymphs, beware
You trust him not, for Cupid's fair,
Lest by his beauty you be harm'd;

Admit , thou darling of mine eyes,
I have some idol lately framed,
That under such a false disguise
Our true loves might the less be famed:
Canst thou, that knowest my heart, suppose
I'll fall from thee, and worship those?

Remember, dear, how loth and slow
I was to cast a look or smile,
Or one love-line to misbestow,
Till thou hadst changed both face and style:
And art thou grown afraid to see
That mask put on thou mad'st for me?

I dare not call those childish fears,
Coming from love, much less from thee;