poems about love

A skilfull hand this Satyre made so near
To life, that only Breath is wanting here:
I am attendant to the Nymphs; before
I fill'd out purple wine, now water powre;
Who ere thou art com'st nigh, tread softly, lest
You waken Love out of his pleasing rest.

Others have pleasantness and praise,
And wealth; and hand and glove
They walk with worship all their days,
But I have only Love.

And therefore if Love be a fire,
Then he shall burn me up;
If Love be water out of mire,
Then I will be the cup.

If Love come worn with wayfaring,
My breast shall be his bed;
If he come faint and hungering,
My heart shall be his bread.

If Love delight in vassalage,
Then I will be his thrall,
Till, when I end my pilgrimage,
Love give me all for all.

Or love mee lesse, or love mee more
and play not with my liberty,
Either take all, or all restore,
bind mee at least, or set mee free,
Let mee some nobler torture finde
than of a doubtfull wavering mynd,
Take all my peace, but you betray
myne honour too this cruell way.

Tis true that I have nurst before
that hope of which I now complaine,
And having little sought no more,
fearing to meet with your disdaine:
The sparks of favour you did give,
I gently blew to make them live:

Only the wanderer
Knows England's graces,
Or can anew see clear
Familiar faces.

And who loves joy as he
That dwells in shadows?
Do not forget me quite,
O Severn meadows.

Once the orioles sang in chorus,
Once the skies were a cloudless blue.
Spring bore blossoms expressly for us,
Stars lined up to spell " Y-O-U. "
All the world wore a golden hue,
Life was a thing to be bold and gay at;
Love was the only game I knew,
And love is a game that two can play at.

Now the heavens are scowling o'er us,
Now the blossoms are pale and few.
Love was a rose with thorns that tore us,
Love was a ship without a crew.
Love is untender, and love is untrue,
Love is a moon for a dog to bay at,

I

O H , wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine?
As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie and pine.
Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.

II

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.
Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.


Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?—
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole:

Once in the dear dead days beyond recall, When on the world the mists began to fall,
Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng Low to our hearts Love sung an old sweet song;
And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam, Softly it wove itself into our dream.
Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low, And the flick'ring shadows
softly come and go, Tho' the heart he weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song, comes Love's old sweet song.
Even today we hear Love's song of yore, Deep in our hearts it dwells forever more

On summer afternoons I sit
Quiescent by you in the park,
And idly watch the sunbeams gild
And tint the ash-trees' bark.

Or else I watch the squirrels frisk
And chaffer in the grassy lane;
And all the while I mark your voice
Breaking with love and pain.

I know a woman who would give
Her chance of heaven to take my place;
To see the love-light in your eyes,
The love-glow on your face!

And there's a man whose lightest word
Can set my chilly blood afire;
Fulfillment of his least behest

An old silver church in a forest
Is my love for you
The trees around it
Are words that I have stolen from your heart.
An old silver bell, the last smile you gave,
Hangs at the top of my church.
It rings only when you come through the forest
And stand beside it.
And then, it has no need for ringing,
For your smile takes its place.

The rhythm of life
Is a jazz rhythm,
Honey.
The gods are laughing at us.

The broken heart of love,
The weary, weary heart of pain,—
Overtones,
Undertones,
To the rumble of street cars,
To the swish of rain.

Lenox Avenue,
Honey.
Midnight,
And the gods are laughing at us.