poems about love

My darling's features, painted by the light;
As in the convex of a mirror, see
Her face diminished so fantastically
It scarcely hints her lovely self aright.
Away, poor mockery! My outraged sight
Turns from the fraud you perpetrate on me;
This is no transcript, but a forgery,
As far from semblance as is black from white.
Breathe, smile, blush, kiss me! Murmur in my ear
The things we know — we only! and give heed
To this deep sigh and this descending tear,
Ere from my senses you can win the meed

As stands a statue on its pedestal,
Amidst the storms of civil mutiny,
With an unchanged and high serenity,
Though Caesar's self be toppled to his fall;
So stands my faith in thee amidst the brawl
Within my heart — the woeful tragedy
Of passions that conspire for mastery
Above the power that holds their rage in thrall.
Image of comfort! Lustrous as the star
That crests the morning, and as virgin pure,
All is not lost if thou wilt but endure!
If through the dust and turmoil of this war,

If she should give me all I ask of her,
The virgin treasures of her modest love;
If lip to lip in eager frenzy clove,
And limb with limb should palpitate and stir
In that wild struggle whose delights confer
A rapture which the jealous gods above
Envy and long for as they coldly move
Through votive fumes of spice and burning myrrh;
Yea, were her beauty thus securely mine,
Forever waiting at my beck and call,
I lord and master of her all in all;
Yet at that weakness I would fret and pine

The leaden eyelids of wan twilight close
Upon the sun; and now the misty dew
Trails its wet skirts across the glades, and through
The tangled grasses of the meadow goes,
Shaking a drop in every open rose,
In every lily's cup; Yon dreary yew
Alone looks darker for the tears that strew
Its dusky leaves, and deeper shadow throws,
And closer gathers; as if it would sit
As one who, mourning, wraps his mantle tight,
And huddles nearer to the dismal sight
Of some lost love; so yonder tree seems knit

Farewell once more, — and yet again farewell!
I cannot quit thee. On thy lips I press
A parting kiss. I cease from my caress;
Slowly I loose thy waist; the troubled swell
Of thy fair bosom, with the sighs that tell
Thy own emotion, falls from me. I bless
Thy downcast head; upon each lustrous tress
Rest my poor hands, as if some sacred spell
Were in my benediction. Then I try
A sudden parting. Ah! how whirls my brain!
How pang crowds pang; how pain leaps over pain!
My purpose falters; o'er my senses fly

So, the year's done with!
( Love me for ever! )
All March begun with,
April's endeavour;
May-wreaths that bound me
June needs must sever;
Now snows fall round me,
Quenching June's fever —
( Love me for ever! )

From the brake the Nightingale
Sings exulting to the Rose;
Though he sees her waxing pale
In her passionate repose,
While she triumphs waxing frail,
Fading even while she glows;
Though he knows
How it goes —
Knows of last year's Nightingale
Dead with last year's Rose.

Wise the enamoured Nightingale,
Wise the well-beloved Rose!
Love and life shall still prevail,
Nor the silence at the close
Break the magic of the tale
In the telling, though it shows —
Who but knows

K ATE-A -W HIMSIES , John-a-Dreams,
Still debating, still delay,
And the world 's a ghost that gleams —
Wavers — vanishes away!

We must live while live we can;
We should love while love we may.
Dread in women, doubt in man ...
So the Infinite runs away.

O, GATHER me the rose, the rose,
While yet in flower we find it,
For summer smiles, but summer goes,
And winter waits behind it!

For with the dream foregone, foregone,
The deed forborne for ever,
The worm, regret, will canker on,
And Time will turn him never.

So well it were to love, my love,
And cheat of any laughter
The fate beneath us and above,
The dark before and after.

The myrtle and the rose, the rose,
The sunshine and the swallow,
The dream that comes, the wish that goes,

Here sleeps THE Queen; this is the royall bed.
O'th' Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,
Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling aire,
This Rose is withered, once so lovely faire,
On neither tree did grow such Rose before,
The greater was our gain, our losse the more.