poems about love

I CANNOT love thee, tho' thy soul
Be one which all good thoughts control;
Altho' thy eyes be starry bright,
And the gleams of golden light
Fall upon thy silken hair,
And thy forehead, broad and fair;
Something of a cold disgust,
(Wonderful, and most unjust,)
Something of a sullen fear
Weighs my heart when thou art near;
And my soul, which cannot twine
Thought or sympathy with thine,
With a coward instinct tries
To hide from thy enamour'd eyes,
Wishing for a sudden blindness

There is no earthly friend nor kin,
No, there is no other
Whom we can confidence put in,
Like mother.
Others may love you for a day,
Soon their love will fade away;
But a mother's love will last for aye.

Others, too, may faithless prove,
Even your father and brother;
But she, yes, she will always love, —
Your mother.
Aye! her heart is all aflame
With holy love each day the same,
And pure as crystal drops of rain.

No, there is no earthly friend,
No, no, not another!

(to Helen)

Twenty years ago to-day,
In the fragrant month of roses,
A little baby girl came our way,
To prove the love that God discloses;
Precious gift! from head to feet,
And we called her " Honey-sweet. "

Now on this, her natal day,
In the lovely month of June,
With enduring love we say —
" That we find our hearts in tune

When the white moon divides the mist,
My longing eyes believe
'T is the white arm my lips have kissed
Flashing from thy sleeve.

And when the tall white lily sways
Upon her queenly stalk,
Thy white form fills my dreaming gaze
Down the garden walk.

When, rich with rose, a wandering air
Breathes up the leafy place,
It seems to me thy perfumed hair
Blown across my face.

And when the thrush's golden note
Across the gloom is heard,
I think 't is thy impassioned throat

Yon field is white with daisies
As we stand together here;
Sad good-byes fondly breathing
Sweetheart mine and sweetheart dear!
Striving hard (in soft appeal)
Love's emotions to conceal;
But when daisies bloom again,
We will meet, my sweetheart, then.

On, on towards Our Lady's shrine
The faithful Walter rode;
Before it kneeled a youthful maid,
Bowed down by sorrow's load.
" Oh stay, my Walter! Stay, mine own!
Know'st thou no more my voice's tone,
Which once thou heardst so gladly?

" Whom see I here? the maid untrue
That once, alas! was mine?
Where hast thou left thy silken robes,
Thy gold, thy jewels fine? "

I haue a loue thats faire,
soe constant, firme, & kinde!
shee is w i thout compare,
whose favor doth me blind!
shee is the flower of Maids tha t hath beene, is, or can bee!
when beautyes garlands made, itshalbe borne by Nancye.
Her golden haire w i th a face soe fayre,
her cheekes like snow where roses grow;
Pretty Nancy lipps w i th a breath soe sweete,
a pretty chin w i th a dimple in,
hath woone my hart euen for her p ar t;
Pretty Nancy, my M istres s of true constancy!

T HIRSIS , a young and am'rous Swain,
Saw two, the Beauties of the Plain;
Who both his Heart subdue:
Gay Caelia 's Eyes were dazzling fair,
Sabina 's easy Shape and Air
With softer Magic drew.

He haunts the Stream, he haunts the Grove,
Lives in a fond Romance of Love,
And seems for each to die;
'Till each a little spiteful grown,
Sabina Caelia 's Shape ran down,
And she Sabina 's Eye.

LOVE wakes and weeps
While Beauty sleeps!
O for music's softest numbers,
To prompt a theme
For Beauty's dream,
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!

Through groves of palm
Sigh gales of balm,
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;
While through the gloom
Comes soft perfume,
The distant beds of flowers revealing.

O wake and live!
No dreams can give
A shadowed bliss, the real excelling;
No longer sleep,
From lattice peep,
And list the tale that Love is telling!

I SAW a mother holding
Her play-worn baby son,
Her pliant arms enfolding
The drooping little one.

Her lips were made of sweetness,
And sweet the eyes above;
With infantile completeness
He yielded to her love.

And I who saw the heaving
Of breast to dimpling cheek,
Have felt, within, the weaving
Of thoughts I cannot speak;

Have felt myself the nestling,
All strengthless, love-enisled;
Have felt myself the mother
Abrood above her child.