poems about love

Oh thou, the laureate of our western realms,
Singing at will beneath your Cambridge elms,
Charming that sacred mansion where the grand
Paternal Cincinnatus of our land
Dwells, a majestic shadow — more than king;
Who, staidly smiling, hearkens while you sing.
Wouldst thou but build in Rome, we should behold
O'er Nero's ruins rise the enduring house of gold.

But I, a Troubadour born out of time,
From shrine to shrine, pour out my idle rhyme,
Impelled still onward with a love intense,
Singing for love (the only recompense),

Behold yon hills. The one is fresh and fair;
The other rudely great. New-springing green
Mantles the one; and on its top the star
Of love, in all its tenderest light, is seen.
Island of joys! how sweet thy gentle rays
Issue from heaven's blue depths in evening's prime!
But round yon bolder height no softness plays,
Nor flower nor bud adorns its front sublime.
Rude, but in majesty, it mounts in air,
And on its summit Jove in glory burns;
'Mid all the stars that pour their radiant urns,

Thou glorious spirit of life and love!
There is not a leaf or flower,
That spreads to the sun, when meadow and grove
Awake with the April shower, —
There is not a creature that walks the earth,
And is glad in his liberty,
But feels and knows, from his earliest birth,
How his being is full of thee.

The waters, that fall from the mountain's brow,
Or in verdurous valleys flow;
The waves, that around the gallant prow
In the noon-light flash and glow;
The sea, as it heaves from the line to the pole,

Spiders' spun threads spread through curtains
Sweet grasses' knotted blades choke the pathways
Pink cheeks in mute desire weep her life away
Golden orioles fitful flit, flit past
Old love, though old, once was new.
New love, though new, also must grow old.

She has no heart, but she is fair, —
The rose, the lily, can't outvie her;
She smiles so sweetly, that the air
Seems full of light and beauty nigh her.

She has no heart, but yet her face
So many hues of youth revealing,
With so much liveliness and grace,
That on my soul 't is ever stealing.

She has no heart, she cannot love,
But she can kindle love in mine; —
Strange, that the softness of a dove
Round such a thing of air can twine.

She has no heart, — her eye, though bright,

Let us love while life is young,
And the vital stream is glowing;
When the heart is newly strung,
And the tide of health is flowing.

Let us pluck the Paphian rose,
When its bud is first unfolding;
Ere its withered petals close,
In the misty darkness moulding.

Pluck it, when the morning dew
Twinkles on the new-blown flower,
And the vernal sky of blue
Opens through the melting shower.

Pluck it, when the air is sweet,
And the winds no more are chilling;
When the loving swallows meet,

O, wilt thou go with me, love,
And seek the lonely glen?
O, wilt thou leave for me, love,
The smiles of other men? —
The birds are there aye singing,
And the woods are full of glee,
And love shall there be flinging
His roses over thee.

O, wilt thou go with me, dear,
And share my humble lot?
O, wilt thou live with me, dear,
Within a lowly cot? —
Though beauty hath enshrouded thee
With all that 's sweet and fair,
The sorrows that have clouded thee
Shall all be wanting there.

In the south country there lives a lovely lady,
Her face as delicate as peach or plum
In the morning she wanders on the north shore of the River,
In the evening she wanders on an islet in the Xiang
But these days rosy cheeks are out of fashion,
No one is there to see her dazzling smile
In the blink of an eye, the year's night is on us,
Such fleeting beauty cannot last for long.

Come, thou Almighty Will!
Our fainting bosoms fill
With thy great power;
Strength of our good intents,
Our tempted hour's Defence,
Calm of faith's confidence,
Come, in this hour!

Come, thou most tender Love!
Within our spirits move,
Their sweetest guest;
Extinguish passion's fire,
Exalt each low desire,
To deeds of love inspire,
Quickener and Rest!

Come, Light serene and still!
Our darkened spirits fill
With thy clear day;
Guide of the feeble sight,

It was the hour of moonlight, and the bells
Had rung their curfew tones, and they were still;
The echo died around the distant hill,
Sinking in faint and fainter falls and swells,
Accordant with the fitful wind, that blew
Over the new-mown meadow, where the dew
Stood twinkling on the closely shaven stems,
Glittering as 't were a carpet sown with gems;
And from the winding river there arose
A mist, that curled in volumed folds, and gave
A snowy mantle to the stealing wave,
Like that which fancy, love-enchanted, throws