poems about love

Wild roses hidden in the hedge
Surrender to the lips of June;
White lilies cloistered in the sedge
Permit the kisses of the moon.

And oh, my heart desires your love,
As never June desires a rose,
And never the pale moon above
Such longing for a lily knows.

And yet your love I vainly seek,
Unto my love no love replies,
No blush gives answer in your cheek,
No passion lightens in your eyes.

Ardent as June I watch and wait,
Pale as the moon I pace your sky;
O Lady, be compassionate,

Not me you love — not me so maimed and marred,
So flecked with flaws,
So sullied and so scarred,
Or, loving me, you love me just because
Your faith can see
Embalmed in me
The boy-who-was —
The poet-boy, so starry and ill-starred,
Who died of life too hopeless and too hard.

Flame-footed youth, have you a mind
To follow Ecstasy—
To woo pale Ecstasy for friend?
Is that the crock of gold you'd find
Under the rainbow's end?

The wooing-wisdom they reap so
Who win from fever free,
'Tis not a crop that fools may scorn—
But do you know, boy, do you know
How late true love is born?

First-love's a star will flare to nought—
Will fall and coasting flee—
Escaping, as it falls, like fire;
But true love's old—a singing thought
More lovely than desire.

" Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. "
The Christmas joy, the song, the feast, the cheer,
Thine be the light of love in every face
That looks on thee, to bless thy coming year.

Thy own wish wish I thee. What dost thou crave?
All thy dear hopes be thine, whate'er they be.
A wish fulfilled may make thee king or slave;
I wish thee Wisdom's eyes wherewith to see.

Behold, she stands and waits, the youthful year!
A breeze of morning breathes about her brows;
She holds thy storm and sunshine, bliss and fear,

Why art thou sad, dear Lady? whose sweet ways
Do cleanse and gladden all the paths thou treadest;
Making rebellious spirits calm, and praise
To spring before thee, wheresoe'er thou threadest
Thy gracious path, 'mid mortal sins and pain;
Till at thy presence hearts take hope again.

Why art thou sad to-night, withdrawn, apart?
Save from one only, whom thy love approveth:
Save from one only, in whose sentient heart
Vibrates each pain or joy, thy soul that moveth.
Draw near, sweet Penitent; confess thy fears:

O bare your throat, Lynnette, — said he —
O bare your bosom so soft, and white,
That my lips are longing to close on tight:
O bare them full for my eyes to see,
For there's never a sight
So fair elsewhere to ravish me!

Great God, thou madest her fair to desire,
As fair as a dream in the fairest sleep
That ever arose, and awoke to weep
The man that it tortured with flakes of fire
Of desire to steep
His soul for a whole hour there and — expire.

And you're here, Lynnette, and I hold you, dear!

And wherefore does the student trim his lamp,
And watch his lonely taper, when the stars
Are holding their high festival in heaven,
And worshipping around the midnight throne?
And wherefore does he spend so patiently,
In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming hours
Of youth and joyance, when the blood is warm,
And the heart full of buoyancy and fire?

The sun is on the waters, and the air
Breathes with a stirring energy; the plants
Expand their leaves, and swell their buds, and blow,

" I love my Love in the days of Spring,
With her I'll go a-garlanding,
A-garlanding in the merry May,
Laughing and singing all the day.
We roam the woods, we trace the streams,
Our waking thoughts are bright as dreams;
No bee on the blossom, no lark in the sky,
Is happier than my love and I."

I love to swing in the garden-bowers,
Under the branches all alone; —
I've heard your speeches, full of flowers,
Till I am weary of the hours —
So, prithee, babbler, get you gone.
Can you not leave me to myself?

Dearling of these, of future times the glory;
Branch royal sprung from many a regal stem;
On whose fair structure written is the story
Of Nature's chiefest skill, World's choicest gem,
Wit's richest cabinet, Virtue's best array,
Centre where lines of all hearts' loves do meet:
Sweet ground, whereon the Muses love to play;
Ripe in wit, though green in years, of form most sweet.
Scotland's fair fruit, England's great hope, France's love,
Ireland's awe, Cambria's joy, Great Britain's fame,
Abridgment of all worth. The mighty Jove,

Mine eye with all the deadly sins is fraught:
First Proud, sith it presumed to look so high;
A watchman being made, stood gazing by,
And Idle, took no heed till I was caught:
And Envious, bears envy that my thought
Should in his absence be to her so nigh:
To Kill my heart, mine eye let in her eye,
And so consent gave to a murder wrought:
And Covetous, it never would remove
From her fair hair, gold so doth please his sight:
Unchaste, a bawd between my heart and love:
A Glutton eye, with tears drunk every night.