poems about love

Out in the weather, with the blooms and with the birds!
Set the sweetest music to the sweetest human words!
Ring, bells, ring!
And blossoms sway and swing!
For all the world is love, my dear, when all the world is spring.

Out in the weather, with the blossoms and the breeze,
The sunshine's gold and silver on the tresses o' the trees!
Ring, bells, ring!
While birds in music sing!
All the world is love, my dear, when all the world is spring!

Out in the weather — the weather fair and free!

I

Dear little fellow, don't forget —
Leaving you now, that I love you yet!
Just as I did in a far, fair day
When your eyes were light, and your smile was May,
In the beautiful — beautiful far-away!
Dear little fellow, don't forget —
Leaving you now, that I love you yet!

II

Dear little fellow, don't forget —
Leaving you now, that my eyes are wet
With tears for the years that may come to you
When the shadows darken your eyes of blue,
And the dreams are false where the dreams seemed true!

Sweetheart, 'twas sunshine, 'twas Summer — 'twas June!
The meadows were romping, the sky was at noon,
And we were two children together below it.
Ah, dear! could we ever be gladder and know it?

Then, dearest, came days when the Summer was dead;
The gaunt woodland cried to the gray overhead;
And who could have known, in young Maytime of weather,
Love's tenderest depth lies in mourning together?

To think that to the world this night may seem
Only the hours from sunset time to sleep —
This night, when love made real my dearest dream
And gave it me to keep!

That others have not known this strange white day
But let it pass like any other one,
While love-led, hand in hand, we found the way
Into the Land of Sun!

Oh, heart, dear heart, they have not seen nor known;
But evermore this one day stands apart
Glad, rare, and radiant — this one day alone
Deep shining in my heart!

WILD OR DOG ROSE .

She clasps no golden zone of pride,
Her fair and simple robe around —
By flowing riband, lightly tied,
Its graceful folds are bound:

And thus attired — a sportive thing,
Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild,
Proud Fashion! match me in your ring,
New England's mountain-child!

Slowly rose the daedal Earth
Through the purple-hued abysm,
Glowing like a gorgeous prism,
Heaven exulting o'er its birth.

Still the mighty wonder came
Through the jasper-colored sphere,
Ether-winged, and crystal-clear,
Trembling to the loud acclaim.

In a haze of golden rain
Up the heavens rolled the sun,
Danäe-like the earth was won,
Else his love and light were vain.

So the heart and soul of man
Own the light and love of heaven;
Nothing yet in vain was given,

IRIS .

Perchance the gods, like us, conversed with flowers,
And Iris, their sweet messenger, did borrow
From the rich wreaths she bore in those bright hours,
Her wings' still varying hues of joy and sorrow: —
Oh! were she now on earth — how fit to bear
To thee, my goddess, all my love and care!

I ask not for thy Love, O Lord; the days
Can never come when anguish shall atone.
Enough for me were but Thy pity shown
To me, as to the stricken sheep that strays,
With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways —
Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known,
Or find me in the wilderness alone,
And slay me as the hand of mercy slays.
I ask not for Thy love; nor e'en so much
As for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie;
But be Thou still my shepherd — still with such
Compassion as may melt to such a cry;

If she you loved has proved unkind,
Love one that will be fonder;
Or, better, leave the town behind —
Strap wallet on, and wander!

You soon will reach a lake of blue
Enclosed by weeping willows;
There let your trivial tears bedew
The grass, and spare your pillows.

Then climb the rugged mountain sheer;
Though toil and stress confound you,
When you are on the top you'll hear
The eagles calling round you.

And free as they, and strong of wing,
Your life and strength renewing,

Wild caresses, tender woes,
Dallying with the burning rose,
Fragrance sweet and lovely lies,
Passion rude in noble guise,
Love — its arts, its blisses, sighs —
Masters are the French in those.

For the art of hating, none
Like the Germans. Hate begun,
In the soul the drops distil
And the poison mounts until
There's enough at last to fill
Even Heidelberg's vast tun.