poems about love

I did not love him for myself alone:
I loved him that he loved my dearest love.
O God, no blasphemy
It is to feel we loved in trinity,
To tell Thee that I loved him as Thy Dove
Is loved, and is Thy own,
That comforted the moan
Of Thy Beloved, when earth could give no balm
And in Thy Presence makes His tenderest calm.

So I possess this creature of Love's flame,
So loving what I love he lives from me;
Not white, a thing of fire,
Of seraph plumed limbs and one desire,
That is my heart's own, and shall ever be:

Love rises up some days
From a blue couch of light
Upon the summer sky;
He wakes, and waking plays
With beams and dewdrops white;
His laugh is like the sunniest rain,
And patters through his voice;
He is so lovely, tolerant, and sane,
That the heart questions why
It doth not, every hour it beats, rejoice.

Yet sometimes Love awakes
On a black, hellish bed,
And rises up as hate:
He drinks the hurtful lakes,
He joys to toss and spread
Sparkles of pitchy, rankling flame,

When Love flies in,
Make — make no sign;
Owl-soft his wings,
Sand-blind his eyne;
Sigh, if thou must,
But seal him thine.

Nor make no sign
If love flit out;
He'll tire of thee
Without a doubt.
Stifle thy pangs;
Thy heart resign;
And live without!

WRITTEN ON THE WIFE'S BIRTH-DAY .

LOVE .

In tears, addressing the Husband and the Wife .

 W AS ever Infant so deceiv'd?
'Tis what I could n't have believ'd.

HUSBAND .

Can you , my dear, the cause explain,
Why Cupid should of us complain?

WIFE .

Alas!—not I—what he requires,
He does not ask —but he inspires .

IV

I said, " I have shut my heart
As one shuts an open door,
That Love may starve therein
And trouble me no more. "

But over the roofs there came
The wet new wind of May,
And a tune blew up from the curb
Where the street-pianos play.

My room was white with the sun
And Love cried out in me,
" I am strong, I will break your heart
Unless you set me free. "

Fair friend, 'tis true, your beauties move
My heart to a respect:
Too little to be paid with love,
Too great for your neglect.

I neither love, nor yet am free,
For though the flame I find
Be not intense in the degree,
'Tis on the purest kind.

It little wants of love, but pain,
Your beauty takes my sense,
And lest you should that price disdain,
My thoughts, too, feel the influence.

'Tis not a passion's first access
Ready to multiply,
But like love's calmest state it is

Kind, wise, and true as truth's own heart,
A soul that here
Chose and held fast the better part
And cast out fear,

Has left us ere we dreamed of death
For life so strong,
Clear as the sundawn's light and breath,
And sweet as song.

We see no more what here awhile
Shed light on men:
Has Landor seen that brave bright smile
Alive again?

If death and life and love be one
And hope no lie
And night no stronger than the sun,
These cannot die

The father-spirit whence her soul

I care not for my Lady's soul
Though I worship before her smile;
I care not where be my Lady's goal
When her beauty shall lose its wile.

Low sit I down at my Lady's feet
Gazing through her wild eyes
Smiling to think how my love will fleet
When their starlike beauty dies.

I care not if my Lady pray
To our Father which is in Heaven
But for joy my heart's quick pulses play
For to me her love is given.

Then who shall close my Lady's eyes
And who shall fold her hands?

Thy strong arms are around me, love,
My head is on thy breast:
Though words of comfort come from thee,
My soul is not at rest:

For I am but a startled thing,
Nor can I ever be
Aught save a bird whose broken wing
Must fly away from thee.

I cannot give to thee the love
I gave so long ago —
The love that turned and struck me down
Amid the blinding snow.

I can but give a sinking heart
And weary eyes of pain,
A faded mouth that cannot smile
And may not laugh again.

In summer-time, when all the sky was blue,
And all the garden walks with flowers arrayed,
I sent, dear love, a little song to you.
I heard, you read it where the roses grew,
And then you said, such songs were only made
In summer-time, when all the sky is blue.
So, since you nothing care to prove me true,
I'll fret you not with any homage paid,
Save, love, that little song I sent to you —
I do but ask you, with no thought of rue,
While I shall stand afar off in the shade,
Remember once, when all your sky is blue,