poems about love

My Country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of Liberty,
Of thee I sing:
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrims' pride,
From every mountain side
Let Freedom ring!

My native Country, thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love:
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills,
Like that above.

Our fathers' God, to thee,
Author of Liberty,
To thee we sing:
Long may our land be bright
With Freedom's holy light;

Our finest hope is finest memory;
And those who love in age think youth is happy,
Because it has a life to fill with love.

The maiden said, I wis the londe
Is very fair to see,
But my true-love that is in bonde
Is fairer still to me.

When I, Lord, eye thy Joy, and my Love, small,
My heart gives in: what now? Strange! Sure I love thee!
And finding brambles 'bout my heart to crawl
My heart misgives mee. Prize I ought above thee?
Such great Love hugging them, such small Love, thee!
Whether thou hast my Love, I scarce can see.

My reason rises up, and chides my Cup
Bright Loveliness itselfe. What not love thee!
Tumbling thy Joy, Lord, ore, it rounds me up.
Shall loves nest be a thorn bush: not thee bee?
Set Hovells up of thorn kids in my heart!

Apples of gold, in silver pictures shrined
Enchant the appetite, make mouths to water.
And loveliness in lumps, tuned, and enrined
In jasper cask, when tapped, doth briskly vapor:
Bring forth a birth of keys t'unlock love's chest,
That love, like birds, may fly to't from its nest.

Such is my Lord, and more. But what strange thing
Am I become? Sin rusts my lock all o'er.
Though he ten thousand keys all on a string
Takes out, scarce one is found unlocks the door.
Which ope, my love crinched in a corner lies

My Lord my Life, can Envy ever bee
A Golden Vertue? Then would God I were
Top full thereof untill it colours mee
With yellow streaks for thy Deare sake most Deare,
Till I be Envious made by't at myselfe,
As scarcely loving thee my Life, my Health.

Oh! what strange Charm encrampt my Heart with spite
Making my Love gleame out upon a Toy?
Lay, out Cart-Loads of Love upon a mite?
Scarce lay a mite of Love on thee, my Joy?
Oh, Lovely thou! Shalt not thou loved bee?
Shall I ashame thee thus? Oh! shame for mee!

This Quest rapt at my Eares broad golden Doores
Who's this that comes from Edom in this shine
In Died Robes from Bozrah? this more ore
All Glorious in's Apparrell; all Divine?
Then through that Wicket rusht this buss there gave,
Its I that right do speake mighty to save.

I threw through Zions Lattice then an Eye
Which spide one like a lump of Glory pure
Nay, Cloaths of gold button'd with pearls do ly
Like Rags, or shooclouts unto his he wore.
Heavens Curtains blancht with Sun, and Starrs of Light

What Love is this of thine, that Cannot bee
In thine Infinity, O Lord, Confinde,
Unless it in thy very Person see
Infinity and Finity Conjoyn'd?
What! hath thy Godhead, as not satisfi'de,
Marri'de our Manhood, making it its Bride?

Oh, Matchless Love! Filling Heaven to the brim!
O'rerunning it: all running o're beside
This World! Nay, Overflowing Hell, wherein
For thine Elect, there rose a mighty Tide!
That there our Veans might through thy Person bleed,
To quench those flames, that else would on us feed.

I BRAND

Thou trod'st the shifting sand path where man's race is.
The print of thy soft sandals is still clear.
I too have trodden it those prints a-near,
But the sea washes out my tired foot-traces.
And all that thou hast healed and holpen here
I yearned to heal and help and wipe the tear
Away. But still I trod unpeopled spaces.
I had no twelve to follow my pure paces.
For I had thy misgivings and thy fear,
Thy crown of scorn, thy suffering's sharp spear,

Let those love now, who never lov'd before,
Let those who always lov'd, now love the more.

The Spring , the new, the warb'ling Spring appears,
The youthful Season of reviving Years;
In Spring the Loves enkindle mutual Heats,
The feather'd Nation chuse their tuneful Mates,
The Trees grow fruitful with descending Rain
And drest in diff'ring Greens adorn the Plain.
She comes; to morrow Beauty's Empress roves
Thro' Walks that winding run within the Groves;
She twines the shooting Myrtle into Bow'rs,