poems about love

O Love, how strangely sweet
Are thy weak passions,
That love and joye should meet
In self-same fashions!
Oh, who can tell
The cause why this should move?
But onely this,
No reason aske of Love.

O Love, how strangely sweet
Are thy weak passions,
That love and joye should meet
In self-same fashions!
Oh, who can tell
The cause why this should move?
But onely this,
No reason aske of Love.

1. O Lord, how lovely is the place, Where thou vouch-safst to show thy face,
2. O Lord of Hosts! how blest are they, Who in thine house thy praise display,
In glory, ever bright arrayed; My soul faints for thy blest abode,
Whose hopes in thee are firmly placed; Who with a pious zeal do tread
My heart cries out to see her God With lustre unobscured displayed.
The ways that to thy temple lead; For they shall never be disgraced.
The birds around thy temple throng, And there they build and hatch their young.

O come to me in my dreams love!
When the world is wrapped in sleep,
And the silver moon like virgin queen,
Her lonely vigils keep.
When all is hushed in calm repose—
The earth, and sky, and sea,
Then hasten love to this far-off land,
And dwell one hour with me.

O come to me in my dreams love!
And cheer me on my way;
And bid me look to a higher land
For the dawn of a brighter day.
Then breathe to heaven an earnest prayer
To bless, ere you depart,
With perfect love and childlike faith,

O close of night, I would have you linger
Fall into ecstasy
Turn into a magician on my bed
I ask you to tell me:
What does love say to the lover
at the end of the seasons?

Now wolde I faine sum merthes make
All only for my lady's sake
When I her see:
But nowe I am so far fro her
It will not be.

Though I be far out of her sight
I am her man both day and night,
And so will be:
Therfore wolde as I love her
She loved me.

Whan she is mery than am I gladde,
Whan she is sory than am I sadde,
And cause is why:
For he leveth not that loved her
So well as I.

She seith that she hath sein it write
That seldin sein is sone forgeit.
It is not so:

No , 'tis in vain to seek for bliss;
For bliss can ne'er be found
'Till we arrive where Jesus is,
And tread on heav'nly ground.

There's nothing round these painted skies,
Or round this dusty clod;
Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys,
Or lovely as thy God.

'Tis heav'Non earth to taste his love,
To feel his quick'ning grace;
And all the Heav'n I hope above
Is but to see his face.

Now that you would leave me
And another woo,
Was it you that told me once
Lovers should be true?

Was it you that told me
Lovers should be true?—
Dear, I still believe in love,
But no more—in you!

Now springes the spray,
All for love I am so seek
That slepen I ne may.

Als I me rode this endre day
O' my pleyinge,
Seih I whar a litel may
Began to singe,
" The clot him clinge!
Way es him i' love-longinge
Shall libben ay!"

Son I herde that mirye note,
Thider I drogh:
I fonde hire in an herber swot
Under a bogh,
With joye inogh.
Son I asked, " Thou mirye may,
Why singes tou ay?"

Than answerde that maiden swote
Midde wordes lewe,
My lemman me traves bihot

Now art thou fair, Diodorus,
And ripe for love thou art,
E'en should'st thou wed a woman,
From thee we'll not depart.

Not lips of mine have ever said:
" Would God that I were dead! "
Nay, cruel griefs! ye cannot break
My love of life; nor can ye make
Oblivion blest in any wise,
Nor death seem sweet for sorrow's sake.
Life! life! my every pulse outcries
For life, and love, and quickened breath,