poems about love

o for a world with a string and a kitten
and Tipsy who loves us so much
he pees
and you and I.

Think of reason,
Love 's a poison
Tender hearts should fear to touch. Mist .

From this poison
There 's no reason,
I conceive, to fear so much. P HIL .

Dreadful poison!
Beauteous reason! Mist .

Horrid reason!
Charming poison! P HIL .

Farewell, poison;
'Tis to reason
I direct my placid view: Mist .

Nonsense, reason!
'Tis the poison,
Sir, I must expect of you.

Iris , amidst the fern,
Beside a tender lover,
Said, looking very stern,
And colouring all over,
" Where's that respect, Sir, pray? that niceness, Sir,
Which marks a lover's proper character?"


" Why," replied he, " 'twixt you and me.
Moments there are, my dove,
When lovers think, that it might be
As well to be in love."

A SWEET " No, no," — with a sweet smile beneath,
Becomes an honest girl: I'd have you learn it: —
As for plain " Yes," it may be said, i'faith,
Too plainly and too oft: — pray, well discern it.

Not that I'd have my pleasure incomplete,
Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you;
But that in suffering me to take it, sweet,
I'd have you say, " No, no, I will not let you."

CHAIR

What is the reason, Sir, that every day
You load me thus for nothing, hours and hours?
Is this the manner, pray,
Of making love in that cold clime of yours?
You may be heavy for a century,
And get no further with the lovely she.

GENTLEMAN

And hast thou too conspired against me, chair?
I love, 'tis true — too true — and dare not say it:

Sail , oh sail away,
Oh sail, ye clouds, above my face,
Here where I lie;
Trail, oh trail away
Ye ling'ring minutes and give place
To hours that fly.

But when I hear an echo mutter,
Soft up the slope of golden gorse,
Oh, when I see a distant horse,
When I shall see, afar, a kerchief flutter
Among the shrouds
And driving veils of mist, you'll sail away you hours and clouds,
You'll sail away.

‘O H , Acme love!’ Septimius cried,
As on his lap he held his bride,—
‘If all my heart is not for thee,
And doats not on thee desperately,
And if it doat not more and more,
As desperate heart ne'er did before,
May I be doomed, on desert ground,
To meet the lion in his round!’
He said; and Love, on tiptoe near him,
Kind at last, and come to cheer him,
Clapped his little hands to hear him.
But Acme to the bending youth
Just dropping back that rosy mouth,
Kissed his reeling, hovering eyes,

We are the homeless, even as you,
Who hope and never can begin.
Our hearts are wounded through and through
Like yours, but our hearts bleed within.
We too make music, but our tones
'Scape not the barrier of our bones.

We have no comeliness like you.
We toil, unlovely, and we spin.
We start, return: we wind, undo:
We hope, we err, we strive, we sin,
We love: your love's not greater, but
The lips of our love's might stay shut.

We have the evil spirits too
That shake our soul with battle-din.

Love laid aside his torch, his quiver, and his bow,
And like a roguish herdsman, a ploughing he would go.
He took a pair of bulls, so patient and so strong,
And as he went, he looked to heaven, and sung this merry song: —
Now mind me, Jove, a harvest, — a good harvest, — or by Jove,
I'll make the bull come plough for me, that ploughed the seas for love.

Moan with me, moan, ye woods and Dorian waters,
And weep, ye rivers, the delightful Bion;
Ye plants, now stand in tears; murmur, ye groves;
Ye flowers, sigh forth your odours with sad buds;
Flush deep, ye roses and anemones;
And more than ever now, oh hyacinth, show
Your written sorrows: — the sweet singer 's dead.

Raise, raise the dirge, Muses of Sicily.
Ye nightingales, that mourn in the thick leaves,
Tell the Sicilian streams of Arethuse,
Bion the shepherd's dead; and that with him