poems about love

1.

Madam, your beauty and your lovely parts
Would scarce admit poetick praise and Arts
As they are Loves most sharp and piercing darts;
Though, as again they only wound and kill
The more deprav'd affections of our will,
You claim a right to commendation still.

2.

For as you can unto that height refine
All Loves delights, as while they do incline
Unto no vice, they so become divine;

Lovely thing to see:, A
through the paper window's hole,
the Galaxy.

LOVE

An old Egyptian monarch, when his arms
Had girt the world, or what he knew thereof,
Wrote on his tomb, " All bow to woman's charms,
The greatest conquerer of the earth is Love. "

I strove with none for none was worth my strife;
Reason I loved, and next to reason, doubt;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life
And put it out.

Love is not blind. I see with single eye
Your ugliness and other women's grace.
I know the imperfection of your face, —
The eyes too wide apart, the brow too high
For beauty. Learned from earliest youth am I
In loveliness, and cannot so erase
Its letters from my mind, that I may trace
You faultless, I must love until I die.
More subtle is the sovereignty of love:
So am I caught that when I say, " Not fair, "
'Tis but as if I said, " Not here — not there —
Not risen — not writing letters. " Well I know

DREAMT AS PARTS OF A NEW PLAY WHICH I WROTE .

H E had been struck with Beauty's glance:—the bower
Was nuptial, and was bless'd with holy rites.
They have a child, as lovely as the morn,
Brought into life, and by a peasant's dame
The sacred charge is nurtur'd:—here's the cot
Known by the willow that hangs over it!

WITH AN AIR THAT SHE WAS TO SING .

T O thee my offspring I commend,
The infant's guide, the parent's friend.
Play with my little helpless birth
Before its hands can leave the earth.

To thee alone its trembling fate,
My hopes and fears, I consecrate;
For it was thy enchanting voice
That made the Nymph I love my choice.

One of Nine Sisters took my heart,
And Love to both resign'd his dart.
The couch was bless'd, — Lucina came,

Love — on Delia's breast reposing!
Love — whose ray her eyes impart!
Love! — in her — thyself disclosing;
Let me find thee — in her heart!

'T IS true — that me , with roses crown'd,
The tear of Sympathy has found,
And been at once obey'd;
That Pleasure's light, and Beauty's flower,
Have sunk — when pale Misfortune's hour
Implor'd Compassion's aid.

'Tis true — that in the moral grief ,
I never ask'd or wish'd relief,
Nor envy'd playful ease:
But Love the miracle has wrought,
And Love the feeling bosom taught,
How dearly Pain can please!

M Y youthful heart a willing slave
To Love's enchanting bloom I gave.
But Winter 's come — 'tis Nature's frost ,
The leaves and germs of Spring are lost.

Again, Promethean Love, inspire
The genial flame of young desire;
And thou shalt make the parting flower,
Shame with its hue the Vernal bower.