poems about love

My dearely loved friend how oft have we,
In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)
To some well-chosen place us'd to retire;
And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,
Have past the howres contentedly with chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then discours'd of that,
Spoke our owne verses 'twixt our selves, if not
Other mens lines, which we by chance had got,
Or some Stage pieces famous long before,
Of which your happy memory had store;
And I remember you much pleased were,
Of those who lived long agoe to heare,

As long as nothing rash or mad thou doest for love of me,
No lover, sir! art thou of mine, and I am nought to thee!

One day a fowler-lad was out after birds in a coppice, when he espied perching upon a box-tree bough the shy retiring Love. Rejoicing that he had found what seemed him so fine a bird, he fits all his lime-rods together and lies in wait for that hipping-hopping quarry. But soon finding that there was no end to it, he flew into a rage, cast down his rods, and sought the old ploughman who had taught him his trade; and both told him what had happened and showed him where young Love did sit.

For ever on Mikane's crest,
That soars so far away,
The rain it rains in ceaseless sheets,
The snow it snows all day.

And ceaseless as the rain and snow
That fall from heaven above,
So ceaselessly, since first we met,
I love my darling love.

I

The storm that snapped our fate's one ship in twain
Hath blown my half o' the wreck from thine apart.
O Love! O Love! across the gray-waved main
To thee-ward strain my eyes, my arms, my heart.
I ask my God if e'en in His sweet place,
Where, by one waving of a wistful wing,
My soul could straightway tremble face to face
With thee, with thee, across the stellar ring —

Well, then! my gentle, Night-piece Maid,
Must we still love, in Masquerade?
Is it ordain'd, by Fate, and Thee,
I ne'er that Magic Face shall see?
Unfit shall Noon, as Midnight, prove
To bring to Light the Nymph I love?
Still, of Relief, shall I despair,
And sigh before an absent Fair?

What! shall I kiss, embrace and toy,
Yet never know who gives the Joy?
A Fairy Maid! shall I caress,
Whom, I do not, and do, possess?

I'll not take Oldfield to my Arms,

FROM THE GREEK OF JULIAN ,

PREFECT OF EGYPT .

As a garland once I made,
In a bed of roses laid
Love I found; with eager joy,
By the wings I seiz'd the boy;
Crowning then an ample cup,
In a bumper drank him up.
Now along my veins he swims,
Fluttering, tickling through my limbs.

When Spring grows old, and sleepy winds
Set from the south with odors sweet,
I see my love, in green, cool groves,
Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.

She throws a kiss and bids me run,
In whispers sweet as roses' breath;
I know I cannot win the race,
And at the end I know is death.

But joyfully I bare my limbs,
Anoint me with the tropic breeze,
And feel through every sinew thrill
The vigor of Hippomenes.

O race of love! we all have run
Thy happy course through groves of spring,

I would have died to win her:
I loved her past a dream.
Ah! hand in hand we wandered
Beside the mountain-stream.
I kissed her raven tresses:
I kissed her gentle hand:
I was the proudest lover
In all the wide wide land.

But ah! the rich man sought her;
He bribed her with his gold.
He changed her heart. He bought her.
Her love for me grew cold.
And now my life is over —
In vain the sun may rise;
I never loved the sunshine,
I only loved her eyes!

Ah! my lost love, my darling,

Once did I weepe, and grone,
Drinke teares, draw loathed breath,
And all for loue of one
Who did affect my death:
But now, thankes to disdaine,
I liue relieu'd of paine;
For sighs, I singing goe,
I burne not as before, no, no, no, no.