poems about love

1.

An Age in her Embraces past,
Would seem a Winters day;
Where Life and Light, with envious hast,
Are torn and snatch'd away.

2.

But, oh how slowly Minutes rowl,
When absent from her Eyes
That feed my Love, which is my Soul,
It languishes and dyes.

3.

For then no more a Soul but shade,
It mournfully does move;
And haunts my Breast, by absence made

The love of a woman is sweet;
In life I have fondled a few,
Have felt the red blood as it beat
The uttermost arteries through.
Yet God in His wisdom divine,
Yet God in His infinite plan,
Made nothing as holy and fine
As the love of a man for a man.

There was one with the dark in her hair,
There was one with the dawn in her eyes,
There was one who had kisses to spare —
For never a memory dies.
But, maids, you were nothing but maids;
You passed, as the waters that ran.

I know my love is seeking me
As restless rivers seek the sea,
Across the nights, across the days
That snare the intervening ways.

I know my love is seeking me
As Time must seek Eternity,
When nights are very still I hear
His footsteps, coming, coming near!

Springtime and buds ablow,
Dew on the posies,
Two down the greening go,
Watched by the roses;

I know what love is, —
Yes, I know what 't is!
When dew and blossom kiss,
I know what love is!

His hand slips into mine, —
What heart could chide us?
One kiss, just one, life's wine.
What can betide us?

I know what love is, —
Yes, I know what 'tis!
When dew and blossom kiss,
I know what love is!

Tell it, ah! bird or bee,
Springtime's first lover,

I

PLANTING

Wild plum blossoms on the roadside,
Peach blows on the waking boughs;
Daring whistlers trying pipe notes
Far above the resting plows.

Partridge calling in the woodland,
Budding willow, whispering reed,
Bordering the fallow furrow,
Waiting for the cotton seed.

Strong and black the droning negroes,
Following the even drills,
Flinging out the seed of promise
To the idle, sleepy mills.

Love a-bud with other flowers,

I have come back, oh! first love, love to thee,
Behind thy trellised vine thy lute's soft tone
Speaks to my soul, — my fingers seek thine own, —
Oh! golden hearted, love-kissed Poesy.

I have come back, thy lowly one to be, —
Lend thou thine ear to hear my fretful moan;
I asked for bread, the hard world gave a stone, —
Cold was the pulse of life by land and sea.

I have come back, — breathe on my taper, love, —
The spark died not, it only smouldered low;
I could not keep the white flame free from doubt,

A GENRE PICTURE .

I.

" O Love is like the roses,
And every rose shall fall,
For sure as summer closes
They perish one and all.
Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers:
When winter comes, too late 'twill be
To pluck the happy flowers."

It is a maiden singing,
An ancient girl, in sooth;
The dizzy room is ringing

Strange to a sensing motherhood,
Loved as a toy — not understood,
Child of a dusky father, bold;
Frail little captive, exiled, cold.

Oft when the brooding planets sleep,
You through their drowsy empires creep,
Flinging your arms through their empty space,
Seeking the breast of an unknown face.

Roses after rain,
Pleasure after pain,
Happiness will soothe the sigh,
Smiles await the tear-dimmed eye —
Bloom will follow blight,
Daylight trails the night,
Life is sweeter
Love is deeper
In the heart's twilight!

I MIGHT , of course, send violets by the score, dear,
(And stretch quite to the breaking point, my credit)
In verses, tell the story o'er and o'er, dear—
But “really” poets have much better said it.
I might send candy, books or songs, I know,
But all of these seem stupid commonplaces,
I 'd rather be a kid again and show
My love in gorgeous hearts and paper laces!
“If you love me as I love you—”
Is best of all, when it is true!

You might disguise your hand and shyly send me
A dainty volume, filled with sentiment,