poems about love

An Answere to the first Staffe, that Loue is unlike in Beggers and in Kings.

Compare the Bramble with the Cedar tree,
The Pismyres anger with the Lyons rage:
What is the Buzzing flie where Eagles bee?
A drop the sparke, no seas can Aetna swage.
Small is the heat in Beggers brests that springs,
But flaming fire consumes the hearts of Kings.

Who shrouds himself where slender hairs cast shade:
But mighty Oakes may scorne the Summer Sun:
Smal cure wil serue, wher Bees the woud haue made

The wind stood up and gave a shout;
He whistled on his fingers, and
Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand,
And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,
And so he will, and so he will.

I made my love a little secret house,
Of emerald moss and silver birchen boughs,
Wherein to while away the sunny hours;
And in the roof I set a bubble, bright
With rainbow colours of the moon, and light,
Soft, golden radiance of the dew-drenched flowers.

I made my thoughts her silent servitors,
Clad them in soft, sad, silvery gossamers,
Weft in the twilight by a dryad sighing
For a forsaken love. I draped the walls
With blue-grey curtains of the night that falls,
Star-sprinkled, when the autumn-time is dying.

Thy love has melted my body and it has become water. Any antimony that might have remained became the antimony of the bubble's eyes.
The bud may open by the morning breeze which blows in the garden, but the key to the lock of my heart is the smile of my beloved.

Alam speaks:

The bright eyes of a beautiful woman, awake all night long, are full of love.
It seems, as one looks at her, that youth is flowing from her.
Those eyes are moving to and fro, intoxicated with love.
They are cast down, being heavy with sleep, and sometimes they are wide open.
O Alam, some new beauty is seen in these eyes.
They appear like a bee hovering over a lotus flower.

Shekh Rangrezin replies:

Those eyes that are like a bee want to fly away, when they behold the face of the moon.

Soft he sleeps, where floweth the winding river:
Winds blow light; they dare not awake the sleeper, —
One so young and lovely, so full of beauty,
Grandeur, and glory.

Soft he sleeps, a child on his cross reposing, —
Smiles in peace, unknowing of future sorrows;
Bright and pure, as spirit of life, — as rose-bud,
Fresh in his beauty.

Yet that look reveals, in its pensive sweetness,
Deep and holy love, that will after lead him
Forth to heal and save, and to higher being
Kindly allure us.

I asked sweet love,
Where we should meet,
And greet,
Secure from slips?
On earth beneath, in heaven above?
He answer'd quick with quivering wings,
That perfumed zephyrs stirr'd around,
All crisp with spray from springs
Of tears,
Deep laid in rapture's heart profound,
Long gathered in immemorial years: —
" We'll meet, sir, on your lady's lips. "

Faintly breathes the maiden's song
Through the twilight grove;
Softly sweet it steals along; —
'T is the song of love.

Evening slumbers hushed and still;
Mute the hum of day:
Only winds the gurgling rill
Under flowers away.

Whispered voices echo far
Through the shadowy vale;
Glimmers by a twinkling star
Dian's crescent pale.

Fade in darkness bush and tree:
Rock and wood grow dim:
Wide o'er plain and silent sea
Wavering phantoms swim.

Still the maiden's murmured song

The snow is gone;
The waters run,
Through valley rushing,
From cavern gushing,
And foam along
In light and song.

The sky is blue;
The Spring is new;
The buds are swelling;
The stag is belling;
The lark and dove
Bring life and love.

The woods are green;
In emerald sheen
The grass is springing;
The vales are ringing
With hound and horn:
Young May is born!

Light the lamp of love, —
Light it with a fire
Falling from above,
Sparkling with desire.
When the flame is bright,
Place it in the bower
Where true hearts delight
To pass the evening hour:
It will softly shine
Through the mantling leaves,
Which the Graces twine,
And affection weaves, —
Weaves into a chain,
With the smile of bliss,
Melting looks that banish pain,
And pure enjoyment's honeyed kiss.

See! how bright it gleams,
Like the evening star, —
How its mellow beams