poems about love

Many roses in the wind
Are tapping at the window-sash
A hawk is in the sky; his wings
Slowly begin to plash.

The roses with the west wind rapping
Are torn away, and a splash
Of red goes down the billowing air.

Still hangs the hawk, with the whole sky moving
Past him — only a wing-beat proving
The will that holds him there.

The daisies in the grass are bending,
The hawk has dropped, the wind is spending
All the roses, and unending
Rustle of leaves washes out the rending
Cry of a bird.

When the wind blows her veil
And uncovers her laughter
I cease, I turn pale.
When the wind blows her veil
From the woes I bewail
Of love and hereafter:
When the wind blows her veil
I cease, I turn pale

A CALM EVENING .

Look on these waters, with how soft a kiss
They woo the pebbled shore! then steal away,
Like wanton lovers, — but to come again,
And die in music! — There, the bending skies
See all their stars, — and the beach-loving trees,
Osiers and willows, and the watery flowers,
That wreathe their pale roots round the ancient stones,
Make pictures of themselves!

Hide not, sweetest Love, a sight so pleasing
As those smalls so light composed,
Those fair pillars your knees gently easing,
That tell wonders, being disclosed.
O show me yet a little more:
Here's the way, bar not the door.

How like sister's twines these knees are joined
To resist my bold approaching!
Why should beauty lurk like mines uncoined?
Love is right and no encroaching.
O show me yet a little more:
Here's the way, bar not the door.

O Love, where are thy Shafts, thy Quiver, and thy Bow?
Shall my wounds onely weepe, and hee ungaged goe?
Be just, and strike him, to, that dares contemne thee so.

No eyes are like to thine, though men suppose thee blinde,
So fayre they levell when the marke they list to finde:
Then strike, o strike the heart that beares the cruell minde.

Is my fond sight deceived? or doe I Cupid spye
Close ayming at his breast, by whom despis'd I dye?
Shoot home, sweet Love , and wound him, that hee may not flye!

If Love loves truth, then women doe not love;
Their passions all are but dissembled shewes;
Now kinde and free of favour if they prove,
Their kindnes straight a tempest overthrowes.
Then as a Sea-man the poore lover fares:
The storme drownes him ere hee can drowne his cares.

But why accuse I women that deceive?
Blame then the Foxes for their subtile wile:
They first from Nature did their craft receive:
It is a womans nature to beguile.
Yet some, I grant, in loving stedfast grow;

O never to be moved,
O beauty unrelenting!
Hard hart, too dearely loved;
Fond love, too late repenting!
Why did I dreame of too much blisse?
Deceitfull hope was cause of this.
O heare mee speake this, and no more:
Live you in joy, while I my woes deplore.

All comforts despayred
Distaste your bitter scorning;
Great sorrowes unrepayred
Admit no meane in mourning:
Dye, wretch, since hope from thee is fled;
He that must dye is better dead.
O deare delight, yet, ere I dye,

Maydes are simple, some men say:
They, forsooth, will trust no men.
But, should they mens wils obey,
Maides were very simple then.

Truth a rare flower now is growne,
Few men weare it in their hearts;
Lovers are more easily knowne
By their follies, then deserts.

Safer may we credit give
To a faithlesse wandring Jew
Then a young mans vowes beleeve
When he sweares his love is true.

Love they make a poore blinde childe,
But let none trust such as hee:
Rather then to be beguil'd,

Since now those clouds, that lately over-cast
Your Fame and Fortune, are disperst at last:
And now since all to you fayre greetings make,
Some out of love, and some for pitties sake:
Shall I but with a common stile salute
Your new enlargement? or stand onely mute?
I, to whose trust and care you durst commit
Your pined health, when Arte despayr'd of it?
I, that in your affliction often view'd
In you the fruits of manly fortitude,
Patience, and even constancie of minde,
That Rocke-like stood, and scorn'd both wave and winde?

XVII.
Come away, arm'd with loves delights,
Thy sprightfull graces bring with thee:
When loves longing fights,
They must the sticklers be.
Come quickly, come, the promis'd houre is wel-nye spent,
And pleasure, being too much deferr'd, looseth her best content.