poems about love

Blow, O wind!
Blow unto the maiden's cheek!
The flowers that bloom in gardens
Are the lovely color we seek.

The days of love are early,
The years of love are late;
The spirit lurks within, O soul
That shuts no human gate!

Kiss my cheek, fair maiden —
I'll say farewell to thee;
My heart is deeply laden
With facts from reality.

(Old Melibee) that hast the hearts of all,
Because thy love is likewise generall:
Not Time alone, but thy deare Countries cares
Which far exceed thy yeares, have chang'd thy haires
To white: then let thy Silver age thee fold
In more contents, then did thy age of gold.

Not gifts of gold or costly gems,
But that which is all price above,
The festal marriage-day provides, —
Mercies to cheer and hearts to love.

How many sunny years have passed!
And each has left its radiant line;
The fifty long ago were told,
And now, behold, 'tis fifty-nine.

God of the loving, God of love,
Whose favor blessed the earlier days,
Shine on the years that yet remain,
While silver hairs proclaim thy praise.

Laideur et Beaute

Too great her beauty! 'tis o'erwhelming;
Beneath that mask there's such dissembling:
Yes, I would have her ugly — quite —
I'd have her — yes, a perfect fright
Love her I must in beauty's bloom —
O Heaven, thy wondrous gift resume!
Even from below assistance would I claim;
So she were ugly, and my love the same

Lo! Satan at the word I see —
The sire of ugliness is he:
" Come, come, " he cries, " I'll hideous make her;
Thy fiercest rivals shall forsake her:

OR, THE PLANING OF THE VINE IN GAUL .

Brennus

" What, ho! brave Gauls, " said Brennus once, of old,
" This day a festival in triumph hold!
The fields of Rome my exploits well repay:
I've brought a cutting from their vines away
Let's link together — never more to part,
Thanks to the vine — Love, Honor, Glory, Art!

" Debarred ourselves of its all-potent juice,
We conquered Rome that we might learn its use:
The budding tendrils with their leaves must now

In the tree the sap, in the earth the bursting seed,
In laughter keynotes of grief, in sorrow veins pulsing with joy,
In the passing the eternal, in the eternal the passing,
Ever in things hearts of things
In you are lives more than lives of great cities,
In you are crowding populations asking that you give them freedom,
In you are tragedies every day and gentle love-dreams filling the skies with light,
I reach for them with open heart:
O they come to me, I am filled!

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND .

" Another , and another still succeeds! "
And one by one are from us call'd away,
Friends — valued, loved, and cherish'd many a day,
For noble thoughts and honourable deeds.
Yet reckon not that we have leant on reeds,
Which broke to pierce us, when, without dismay,
In such we have reposed that trust and stay
For which, e'en from the grave, their virtue pleads.

Go spread the joyful tidings
Of his love, of his love,
Tell the nations o'er the waters
Of his love, of his love.
Oh, the precious story! be mine the glory!
To sound the blessed tidings of redeeming love.
Tell those who mourn in darkness
Of his love, of his love,
And repeat the blessed promise
Of his love, of his love.
Oh, the precious story! replete with glory!
Ring out the blessed tidings of redeeming love
The light is breaking,
Jesus comes, Jesus comes,
The light is breaking,

Ah ye mighty caves of the sea, there pushed onward,
In windful waves, of volumes flow
Through rhines. There Bacchus, Venus in lust cherished
Its swell of perfect ease, repeated awe ne'er quenched.
O that inner self, sensation, doth chide variably;
And lo! tell its tale that soothed the heart.
Should but thy plant blend such thought and mind, see,
Tame thy brief gaiety, immortal tears,
And youth to thee return its innocent cheers.
But hence no finite melancholy can calm our fears
That emblem makes, hath thrown us far beyond!

Plead my love, O gentle maiden!
Plead my love, O love!
The pearls beneath the sea
Seduce the spirit above.

But thy flourished grace
That clasped my shoulder to thine,
Like rocks near the surf, abases—
And the waves with their huge repine.

The quality of the soft-grown statue—
That which memory can ne'er conceive—
Ah! thou art the very joy of the marrow
That lies deeply hidden beneath.

I shut mine eyes and cannot see
The depth of thy inner gift;
I might as well play blindman's buff