poems about love

On LOVE.

Venus, the beauteous offspring of the day,
From thy bright orb dart one propitious ray;
Awake the gentlest passions in my breast,
And be thy pow'r thro' all my soul confest.
From faithless waves thou art but feign'd to rise,
Nor gloomy Saturn gave thee to the skies;
No wanton crowds at Cyprus thee invok'd,
Nor impious incense on thy altars smok'd.

Divine thy lineage, thy resplendent star,
With chearful glory glads the fields of air:
From thee the sweet, the fertile spirit flows,

If I should love a maiden more,
And woo her ev'ry hope to crown,
I'd love her all the country o'er,
But not declare it out of town.

One even, by a mossy bank,
That held a hornet's nest within,
To Ellen on my knees I sank, —
How snakes will twine around the shin!

A bashful fear my soul unnerved,
And gave my heart a backward tug;
Nor was I cheer'd when she observed,
Whilst I was silent, — " What a slug! "

At length my offer I preferr'd,
And Hope a kind reply forebode —
Alas! the only sound I heard

Goddess of dreams, mother of love and sorrow,
Such sorrow as from love's fair promise flows,
Such love as from love's martyrdoms doth borrow
That conquering calm which only sorrow knows! —

Venus, Madonna! so serene and tender,
In thy calm after-bloom of life and love,
More fair than when of old thy sea-born splendor
Surprised the senses of Olympian Jove! —

Not these the lips, that kindling into kisses,
Poured subtile heats through Adon's languid frame,
Rained on his sullen lips their warm caresses,

My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed
On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace
That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace,
As if he slept — forgetting his old speed:
For, as in sunshine only we can read
The march of minutes on the dial's face,
So in the shadows of this lonely place
There is no love, and Time is dead indeed.
But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart,
Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies,
It seems we only meet to tear apart
With aching hands and lingering of eyes.

The young moon hides her virgin heart
Within a ring of gold;
So doth this little cycle all
My bosom's love enfold,
And tell the tale that from my lips
Seems ever half untold;
Like the rich legend of the East,
That weaves and interweaves
Its linked sweetness, or the rose
That hath a hundred leaves.

This little fairy talisman
Shall love's serene Elysium span;
No hope shall pass its mystic round,
And all within be holy ground:
And here, as in the elfin ring
Where fairies dance by night,

What a constant jealousy gnaws your heart!
It tires me out; day after day
Some little worry from nothing you start—
Something's hidden in what I say,
Something's hidden in what I do;
That heart of yours is never still,
It cannot be sure that I am true,
But spies and pries about for ill.

Frankly I speak the whole of my mind
Once for all—let it serve or not:
I am not one of that showy kind,
Fair outside with an inward rot.
I love you! will not that suffice?
No! I must say it again and again,

Once did I view a fragrant Flower
Till thro' the optick windows of mine
The sweet discoveries of its beauties
Did much affect & Charm my fant
To see how bright and sweetly it did shine
In Beauties that were purely Genuine.

But Lo, the dire Effects of baneful Pride;
A weed whose favour was Pestiferous
Did vie with this fair flower Qualify'd
With many Vertues Odoriferous.
This fragrant flower which to affect the eyes

That heavenly Sparke , from which th'immortall Soule
Had her first being , striveth to enroule
Her wondrous Guifts in characters of Brasse,
That when (dissolved from this earthie Masse)
Shee mounts aloft, her never-dying Glorie
May fill the Volumes of a learned Storie;
Which after-Ages, reading, may admire,
And (inly burning with the like desire)
To rare Atcheiuements (emulous of Fame
Striving t'immortalize their dying Name)
May bend their Practise, dedicate their Daies;
And, so excited, purchase datelesse Praise.

A fig for her story of shame and of pride!
She strayed in the night and her feet fell astray;
The great Mississippi was glad that day,
And that is the reason the poor girl died;
The great Mississippi was glad, I say,
And splendid with strength in his fierce, full pride—
And that is the reason the poor girl died.

And that was the reason, from first to last;
Down under the dark, still cypresses there.
The Father of Waters he held her fast.
He kissed her face, he fondled her hair,
No more, no more an unloved outcast,

MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD'S LOVE .

[ Farewell and Return ]

I.

I HAVE remembrance of a Boy , whose mind
Was weak: he seem'd not for the world design'd,
Seem'd not as one who in that world could strive,
And keep his spirits even and alive—
A feeling Boy , and happy, though the less,
From that fine feeling, form'd for happiness
His mother left him to his favourite ways,