poems about love

Encroaching on the emptiness, riot of color,
I love this uniquely, my own middle peak.
No cares at all, I lean on light staff,
I walk on calmly, following hidden tracks
On all the mountains falling of leaves is over.
And cold, azure mists form, layer upon layer.

If Life be the street
Where dreams are sold,
Faith is the purse
Of exhaustless gold.

Dreams are a-many,
Both false and true,
But Love's is the home
You fetch them to;

And there, all alone
With Love, you pour
The dreams you bought
On your chamber floor.

And when Love looks
Each packet through,
His smile turns all
The false ones true!

I must not say that thou wast true,
Yet let me say that thou wast fair;
And they, that lovely face who view,
Why should they ask if truth be there?

Truth—what is truth? Two bleeding hearts,
Wounded by men, by fortune tried,
Outwearied with their lonely parts,
Vow to beat henceforth side by side.

The world to them was stern and drear
Their lot was but to weep and moan.
Ah, let them keep their faith sincere,
For neither could subsist alone!

But souls whom some benignant breath

I saw the beauty of the world
Before me like a flag unfurled,
The splendor of the morning sky,
And all the stars in company:
I thought, How beautiful it is!
My soul said, There is more than this.

I saw the pomps of death and birth,
The generations of the earth;
I looked on saints and heroes crowned,
And love as wide as heaven is round:
I thought, How wonderful it is!
My soul said, There is more than this.

Sometimes I have an awful thought
That bids me do the thing I ought;

How long did the sun's round passionate mouth
Kiss that rose's lips, I wonder?
How long did the amorous wind from the south
Try to press her petals asunder?

How long did the honey-bee flit to and fro
Ere she threw her red vest apart,
And showed a glory of gold and snow
Hoarded beside her heart?

Longer far have I yearned for thy love,
And flown round thy folded blossom.
Will pity or passion never move
The proud disdain of thy bosom?

Love me! I loved thee long ago:
Love me! the land is sunny:

Thy Spirit's deeper beauties shine
Thy body's outward beauty through,
And by thine eyes we can divine,
As by a lamp before a shrine,
The lovely inner soul of you.

Were thy heart soft, as Thou art faire,
Thou wert a wonder, past compare.
But frozen Love and feirce Disdaine
By their Extreames thy Graces staine.
Cold coynesse quenches the still fires
Which glowe in Lovers' warme desires;
And scorne, like the quick Light'ning's blaze,
Darts Death against affection's gaze.
O Heavens, what prodigy is this
When Love in Beauty buryed is!
Or that Dead Pitty thus should bee
Tomb'd in a Living Cruelty.

My eyes with floods of tears o'erflow,
My bosom heaves with constant woe;
Those eyes which thy unkindness swells,
That bosom where thy image dwells!
How could I hope so weak a flame
Could ever warm that matchless dame,
When none Elysium must behold
Without a radiant bough of gold?
'Tis her's in spheres to shine;
At distance to admire is mine;
Doom'd like th' enamour'd youth to groan
For a new goddess form'd of stone.
While thus I spoke, Love's gentle pow'r
Descended from th' ethereal bow'r;

In the kingly palace garden
Blooms a roselet fair and bright,
See, it has been sprinkled over
With repeated dews of night.

I N the kingly palace garden,
See the bud that rose-tree bears;
Twice—my lovely maid—at even,
Twice—hath bath'd it with her tears.

I N the kingly palace garden,
There we poured our last adieu!
And behind that lovely rose-tree,
Gave our parting kisses too.

Whom raging dog doth bite,
Hee doth in water still
That Cerberus' image see:
Loue mad, perhaps, when he my heart did smite,
More to dissemble ill,
Transform'd himselfe in thee,
For euer since thou present art to mee:
No spring there is, no floud, nor other place,
Where I, alas! not see thy heauenly face.