poems about love

O Faithless World, and thy more faithless Part,
a womans heart!
The true shop of variety, where sits
nothing but fits
And feavers of desire, and pangs of love,
which toyes remove.
Why was she born to please, or I to trust
words writ in dust?
Suffering her Eys to govern my despair,
my pain for air;
And fruit of time rewarded with untruth,
the food of youth.
Untrue she was: yet, I beleev'd her eys
(instructed spies)
Till I was taught, that Love was but a scool
to breed a fool.

Now you have freely given me leave to love,
What will you do?
Shall I your mirth, or passion move,
When I begin to woo;
Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too?

Each petty beauty can disdain, and I
Spight of your hate
Without your leave can see, and die;
Dispence a nobler Fate!
Tis easie to destroy, you may create.

Then give me leave to love, & love me too
Not with designe
To raise, as Loves curst Rebels doe,
When puling Poets whine,
Fame to their beauty, from their blubbr'd eyn.

I

A novice when I came beneath thy gaze,
There was no wonder in mine eyes before
And no desire till I beheld thy grace.
Be thou benign to young hands folded where
I pray to be thy servant evermore.
And with long-suffering compassion spare
The feet still faltering on alien ways.

II

Now that my lips are very still and burn
Do I behold whither have gone my feet:
Into a splendid realm for others meet.
Ah, yet perchance it was the hour to turn,

November is a spinner
Spinning in the mist,
Weaving such a lovely web
Of gold and amethyst.
In among the shadows
She spins till close of day,
Then quietly she folds her hands
And puts her work away.

Not ours the vows of such as plight
— Their troth in sunny weather,
While leaves are green, and skies are bright,
— To walk on flowers together.

But we have loved as those who tread
— The thorny path of sorrow,
With clouds above, and cause to dread
— Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.

That thorny path, those stormy skies,
— Have drawn our spirits nearer;
And rendered us, by sorrow's ties,
— Each to the other dearer.

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth,
— With mirth and joy may perish;

1. Both old and young, I pray lend an ear To a
lovesick maiden in deep despair, Whose heart was light, but whose
courage failed, When her true love sailed in the Nightingale .

2 My parents were of high degree,
My true love not so rich as they,
So they sent a press gang which did not fail
To press my true love in the Nightingale .

3 As I that night on my pillow lay,
A form before me these words did say:
" Go tell your parents they may bequail [that they may quail?]
For the loss of your true love in the Nightingale .

1

Never believe me, if I love,
Or know what 'tis, or mean to prove;
And yet in faith I lie, I do,
And she's extremely handsome too:
She's fair, she's wondrous fair,
But I care not who know it,
Ere I'll die for love, I'll fairly forego it.

2

This heat of hope, or cold of fear,

REFRAIN 1

Love
Can be a moment's madness,
Love
Can be insane,
Love
Can be a life of sadness and pain.
Love
Can be a summer shower,
Love
Can be the sun,
Love
Can be two hearts that flower as one.
It can be
Fine and free,
But it's true,
It doesn't always happen to you.
Love
Can be a dying ember,
Love
Can be a flame,
Love pledged in September
May be dead in December.
You may not even remember
It came.
Oh, love
Can be a joy forever,

My sange es in sihting,
My life es in langinge,
Till I thee se, my king,
So faire in thy shining,
So faire in thy fairehede.
Intil thy light me lede,
And in thy luve me fede.
In luve make me to spede,
That thou be ever my mede.
When will thou come,
Jesus, my joy,
And cover me of care,
And give me thee,
That I may se,
And have for evermare?
All my coveiting war comen
If I might till thee fare.
I will na thing bot anely thee
That all my will ware.
Jesu, my savioure,

Cast Chariessa , cast that glasse away,
Nor in its crystall face, thine own survey;
What can be free from loves imperious laws
When painted shadowes real flames can cause?
The fires may burn thee from this Mirrour rise,
By the reflected beams of thine own eyes;
And thus at last fall'n with thy self in love,
Thou wilt my Rivall, thine own Martyr prove;
But if thou dost desire thy form to view,
Look in my heart, where love thy picture drew,
And then if pleas'd with thine own shape thou be,
Learn how to love thy selfe in loving me.