poems about love

I THOUGHT she was wayward — inconstant in part,
But thought not the weakness e'er reached to her heart;
'Twas a lightness of mood which but tempted a lover
The more the true way to that heart to discover.

What changeful seem'd there, was the play of the wave
Which veileth the depth of the firm ocean cave;
I cared not how fitful that light wave might flow,
I would dive for the pearl of affection below.

I won it, methought! and now welcome the strife,
The burthen, the toil, the worst struggles of life;

Thy thoughts are Heavenward! and thy heart, they say,
Which love, oh more than mortal, failed to move,
Now in its precious casket melts away,
And owns the impress of a Saviour's love!

Many, in days gone by, full many a prayer,
Pure, though impassion'd, has been breathed for thee
By one who once thy hallow'd name would dare
Prefer with his to the Divinity.

Requite them now — not with an earthly love —
But since with that his lot thou mayst not bless,
Ask — what he dare not pray for from above —

He goes along
in his thin flesh,
narrow bones,
slow blood,
old hat,
old shoes,
singing for love, battling for love.
He will go down
in thinner flesh,
narrower bones,
slower blood,
older hat,
older shoes,
battling for love, dying for love.
He will be put away
in a thin box,
down a narrow slit
of the old earth,
growing for love, rising for love:
his initials carved
on a thin seed,
narrow seed,
slow seed,
the carving as slow

I told him
that even in love —
that thought for the without —
one must preserve oneself.
I told him
a little love is admissible,
all-love suicidal.
I told him,
even if one love a little,
one must preserve oneself.
I told him,
even in fair play —
the love phrase of commerce
which calls for a recognized balance
between two factors or people —
one must preserve oneself.
It's fine to say but not fair,
not fair to oneself —
" My dear sir, I'd like to offer you more than you ask — "

Whatever tears mine eyes may weep,
One precious thing I still may keep,
Till earth and time shall end;
I think it will be mine in Heaven,
This perfect gift that God has given —
It is your love, my friend.

Whatever tears mine eyes may weep,
One precious thing I still may keep,
Till earth and time shall end;
I think it will be mine in Heaven,
This perfect gift that God has given —
It is your love, my friend.

You shall have love — your share of it;
And honor, too, may be your own;
And gold perhaps, and care of it;
Yet shall you whisper, when alone:
Whatever heart may envy me,
I am as poor as I can be.

You shall have love — your share of it;
And honor, too, may be your own;
And gold perhaps, and care of it;
Yet shall you whisper, when alone:
Whatever heart may envy me,
I am as poor as I can be.

Love is a sword,
a million-bladed sword
slashing the petty pates
and sticking the smug
stomachs of the past
till the pink blood dribble,
and with a roar of ribald song,
flaunting the laughing boyish present
against the stare and whisper
of the doddering future!

Willow: Why do you bend so low
with your staring into the stream?
Only to see how deep it is!

Fool: Do you think you're beardless still
or meditating suicide?
Only to find if one might wade!

Lilies and cat-tails belong to the young,
and the water is cold this time of year?
Only to touch my love over there!

Your love? you love? and which is she?
That wrinkled gnarled old bandy-leg?
The one with the gay white limbs!

Dotard: What could she see in you?
She'd yank your beard and laugh away?

Before an Altar

I wish I were the little key
That locks Love's Captive in,
And lets Him out to go and free
A sinful heart from sin.

I wish I were the little bell
That tinkles for the Host,
When God comes down each day to dwell
With hearts He loves the most.

I wish I were the chalice fair,
That holds the Blood of Love,
When every flash lights holy prayer

He who wills life wills its condition sweet,
Having made love its mother, joy its quest,
That its perpetual sequence might not rest
On reason's dictum, cold and too discreet;

For reason moves with cautious, careful feet,
Debating whether life or death were best,
And why pale pain, not ruddy mirth, is guest
In many a heart which life hath set to beat.

But I will cast my fate with love, and trust
Her honeyed heart that guides the pollened bee
And sets the happy wing-seeds fluttering free;