poems about love

Wilt thou, remorseless fair,
Still laugh while I lament,
Or shall thy chief contentment be,
To see me malcontent?

Shall I, Narcissus-like,
A flying shadow chase,
Or like Pygmalion hug a stone,
That hath no sense of grace?

No, no, my blind love now
Must borrow Reason's eyes,
And as thy fairness made me fond,
My wrongs must make me wise.

My loyalty disdains
To love a loveless dame:
The life of Cupid's fire consists
Into a mutual flame.

Had'st thou but given one look,

All sweet and startled gravity,
My Love comes walking from the Park;
Her eyes are full of what they've seen —
The little bushes puffing green,
The candles pale that light the chestnut-tree.

The tulip and the jonquil spies;
The sunshine and the sudden dark;
The dance of buds; and Madam Dove,
Sir Blackbird fluting to his Love —
These little loves my Love has in her eyes.

In dainty shoes and subtle hose
My Love comes walking from the Park;
She is, I swear, the sweetest thing

(S APPHO .)

Mighty Queen of Love, deathless Aphrodite,
Daughter of great Zeus, weaver of enchantments,
Torture not my heart with distress and anguish!
Hear me, I pray thee!

Oh, come hither now, if thou heardst me ever
Calling on thy name, and didst deign to listen,
Leaving thy august father's golden mansion
At my entreating.

To thy chariot yoked, fair fleet sparrows drew thee,
Flapping fast their wings; round the dark earth circling,

Love flew by! Young wedding day,
Peeping through her veil of dew,
Saw him, and her heart went fey —
His wings no shadows threw.

Love flew by! Young day was gone,
Owls were hooting — Whoo-to-whoo!
Happy wedded lay alone,
Who'd vowed that love was true.

Love flies by, and drops a rose —
Drops a rose, a sprig of yew!
Happy these — but ah! for those
Whose love has cried: Adieu!

My love lived there! And now
'Tis but a shell of brick,
New-painted, flowered about —
So far from being quick
As night when stars die out.

From windows gaily wide,
Where once the curtained dark
My heaven used to hide,
The memories wan and stark
Troop down to me outside.

Love!—that love which comes so stealthily,
And takes us up, and twists us as it will—
What fever'd hours of agony 'twill bring!
How oft we wake and cry: “God set me free
Of love—to never love again!” And still
We fall, and clutch it by the knees, and cling
And press our lips—and so, once more are glad!

And if it go, or if it never come,
Through what a grieving wilderness of pain
We travel on! In prisons stripped of light
We blindly grope, and wander without home.
The friendless winds that sweep across the plain—

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them close — at last — at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled, —
But you, dear heart, you love me now.

Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth, —
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth, —
Though fled is every girlish grace

Last night, in the garden—no stir of leaves—
A firefly, twinkling from spray to spray,
Flew to my lips, and I brushed it by.
Now at dawn the voice of my love grieves;
“Last night, dreaming I was a firefly,
I flew to your lips, and you brushed me away.”

No bird hath ever lifted note so clear,
Or poured so prodigal his lyric breast,
But carried still some music from the nest,
When Winter laid the seal of silence there.
No sea hath ever woo'd the shore so fair
But turn of tide left something half expressed;
Nor true love every burned so strangely blest
That words could hold it all or heart could hear.

And yet the tide will turn again, and tell
Its sweet persistent story o'er and o'er —
The bird take up the cadence where it fell,

Far off in the dim and desolate Past,—
That shoreless and sorrowful sea
Where wrecks are driven by wave and blast,
Shattered, sunken, and lost, at last,
Lies the heart that was broken for me,—
Poor heart!
Long ago broken for me!

My loves were Glory and Pride and Art,—
Ah, dangerous rivals three!
Sweet lips might quiver and warm tears start:
Should an artist pause for a woman's heart,—
Even that which was broken for me?
Poor heart!
Too rare to be broken for me!