poems about love

Slim cunning hands at rest, and cozening eyes—
Under this stone one loved too wildly lies;
How false she was, no granite could declare;
Nor all earth's flowers, how fair.

P[hillips] loved me, not as he lovd his Friends
For he lovd them for gain to serve his Ends
[But] He lovd me [but] and for no Gain at all
But to rejoice & triumph in my fall

O fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind!
As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping;
And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind,
O'er willowy meads and shadow'd waters creeping,
And Ceres' golden fields; — the sultry hind
Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping.

Through so many years
did I suffer
the agony
of keeping our secret—
that even now
I cannot bear
to let the truth be known.

Unto the calmly gathered thought
The innermost of truth is taught—
The mystery dimly understood,
That love of God is love of Good;

That to be saved is only this—
Salvation from our selfishness;
From sin itself and not the pain
That warns us of its chafing chain;

That worship's deeper meaning lies
In mercy, and not sacrifice—
Not proud humilities of sense,
But love's unforced obedience;

But here amid the poor and blind,
The bound and suffering of our kind,
In works we do, in prayers we pray,

Two loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.

The name on one all men may read,
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.

On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.

To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;

O Hari, I am mad with love: none knows my anguish.
My bed is upon the cross: how can I hope for sleep?
My love's bed is in the vault of heaven: how can I hope to find Him?
The wounded knows the wounded's state, or he who caused the wound.
The jeweller knows the jeweller's luck, or he who has the jewel.
Stricken with pain I wander from jungle to jungle, but meet with no physician there.
O Lord, Mira's pain will never cease, till Samvaliya be her physicián.

When the lean, gray grasses
—Cover me, bury me deep,
No sea wind that passes
—Shall break my sleep.

When you come, my lover,
—Sorrowful-eyed to me,
Earth mine eyes will cover;
—I shall not see.

Though with sad words splendid,
—Praising, you call me dear,
It will be all ended;
—I shall not hear.

You may live love's riot
—Laughingly over my head,
But I shall lie quiet
—With the gray dead.

Love, you will not wake me
—With all your singing carouse

L OVE'S breath is in the vernal breeze
That fans the cheek on twilight eves;
Love's breath exhales from out the rose,
When morn unfolds its crimson leaves;
Love's breath is in the murmuring sound
That o'er the bubbling fountain rings;
Love's breath is in the little song
The little bird to Nature sings!

Love's breath from yonder starry worlds
Comes down in ether pure and bright;
Love's breath is in the winter's storm,
And in the summer breeze of night.
Warm looks of love from Nature's face

Open thy lattice love Listen to me!
The cool balmy breeze is abroad on the sea!
The moon like a queen, roams her realms of blue,
And the stars keep their vigils in heaven for you
Ere morn's gushing light tips the hills with its ray,
Away o'er the waters away and away!
Then open thy lattice, love listen to me!
While the moon's in the sky and the breeze on the sea!

—Open thy lattice, love listen to me!
In the voyage of life, love our pilot will be!
—He will sit at the helm wherever we rove,