poems about love

There was a house where an old dame
Lived with a son, his child and wife;
And with a son of fifty years,
An idiot all his life.

When others wept this idiot laughed,
When others laughed he then would weep;
The married pair took oath his eyes
Did never close in sleep.

Death came that way, and which think you
Fell under that old tyrant's spell?
He breathed upon that little child,
Who loved her life so well.

This made the idiot chuckle hard:
The old dame looked at that child dead

Now I can see what Helen was:
Men cannot see this woman pass
And be not stirred; as Summer's Breeze
Sets leaves in battle on the trees.
A woman moving gracefully,
With golden hair enough for three,
Which, mercifully! is not loose,
But lies in coils to her head close;
With lovely eyes, so dark and blue,
So deep, so warm, they burn me through.
I see men follow her, as though
Their homes were where her steps should go.
She seemed as sent to our cold race
For fear the beauty of her face

With a ring of silver,
And a ring of gold,
And a red, red rose
Which illumines her face,
The sun, like a lover
Who glows and is bold,
Wooes the lovely earth
To his strong embrace.

Say what you like,
All things love me!
I pick no flowers —
That wins the Bee.

The Summer's Moths
Think my hand one —
To touch their wings —
With Wind and Sun.

The garden Mouse
Comes near to play;
Indeed, he turns
His eyes away.

The Wren knows well
I rob no nest;
When I look in,
She still will rest.

The hedge stops Cows.
Or they would come
After my voice
Right to my home.

The Horse can tell,
Straight from my lip,

The thing I count and hold as fealty —
The only fealty to give or take —
Doth never reckoning keep, and coldly make
Bond to itself with this or that to be
Content as wage; the wage unpaid, to free
Its hand from service, and its love forsake,
Its faith cast off, as one from dreams might wake
At morn, and smiling watch the vision flee.
Such fealty is treason in disguise.
Who trusts it, his death-warrant sealed doth bear.
Love looks at it with angry, wondering eyes;
Love knows the face true fealty doth wear,

I have found out a gift for my fair;
I know where the fossils abound,
Where the footprints of Aves declare
The birds that once walked on the ground
Oh, come, and — in technical speech —
We'll walk this Devonian shore,
Or on some Silurian beach
We'll wander, my love, evermore.

I will show thee the sinuous track
By the slow-moving Annelid made,
Or the Trilobite that, farther back,
In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid;
Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb,
The Plesiosaurus embalmed;

O MONTH when they who love must love and wed!
Were one to go to worlds where May is naught,
And seek to tell the memories he had brought
From earth of thee, what were most fitly said?
I know not if the rosy showers shed
From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought
In fields, or if the robin's call be fraught
The most with thy delight. Perhaps they read
Thee best who in the ancient time did say
Thou wert the sacred month unto the old:
No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day
So subtly sweet as memories which unfold

TO. C. C.

Welcome ! Perhaps the simple word says all.
And yet, when from a country's earnest heart
It sudden springs, quick pride and triumph start,
Eager as love, and even hold in thrall
Of silence love's own speech, while they recall
How in all men's great deeds of life and art
Their native land immortal share and part
Must keep.
But thou, O royal soul, how small
Such laurels unto thee, we know who love
Thee, and whom thou hast loved! We dare to bring

Love's like a game at Tables, where the die
Of maids' affection doth by fortune fly;
Which, when you think you're surest of the same,
Proves but at best a doubtful after-game;
For if they find your fancy in a blot,
It's two to one if then they take you not,
But, being gam'sters, you must boldly venture,
And when you see the point lie open, enter.
Believe me one thing, — nothing brings about
A game half lost so soon as holding out;
And next to holding out, this you shall find,
There's nothing worse than entering still behind.

I HAVE never loved you yet, if now I love.

If Love was born in that bright April sky
And ran unheeding when the sun was high,
And slept as the moon sleeps through Autumn nights
While those clear steady stars burn in their heights:

If Love so lived and ran and slept and woke
And ran in beauty when each morning broke,
Love yet was boylike, fervid and unstable,
Teased with romance, not knowing truth from fable.

But Winter after Autumn comes and stills
The petulant waters and the wild mind fills