poems about love

Now the wheat is in the ear And the rose is on the brere
And blue caps so divinely blue With corn poppy's o' scarlet hue
Maiden at the close o' Eve Wilt thou dear thy Cottage leave
And walk with one that loves thee

When the Evens tiney tears Beads upon the horny spears
And the spiders lace wets through With its pinhead blebs o' dew
Wilt thou lay thy work aside And walk by brooklets dim descried
When my delight could love thee

While thy footfall lightly prest Tramples bye the skylarks nest

A LITTLE hand is knocking at my heart,
And I have closed the door.
“I pray thee, for the love of God, depart:
Thou shalt come in no more.”

“Open, for I am weary of the way.
The night is very black.
I have been wandering many a night and day.
Open. I have come back.”

The little hand is knocking patiently;
I listen, dumb with pain.
“Wilt thou not open, any more to me?
I have come back again.”

“I will not open any more. Depart.
I, that once lived, am dead.”
The hand that had been knocking at my heart

Phillis, for shame let us improve
A thousand diff'rent ways,
Those few short moments snatch'd by love,
From many tedious days.

If you want courage to despise
The censure of the grave,
Though love's a tyrant in your eyes,
Your heart is but a slave.

My love is full of noble pride,
Nor can it e'er submit,
To let that fop, discretion, ride
In triumph over it.

False friends I have, as well as you,
Who daily counsel me
Fame and ambition to pursue,
And leave off loving thee.

I love you truly, truly,
dear, Life with its sorrow, life with its tear, Fades into
dreams when I feel you are near, For I love you truly, truly, dear.
Ah! love, 'tis something to feel your kind
hand, Ah! yes, 'tis something by your side to stand; Gone is the
sorrow, Gone doubt and fear, For you love me truly, truly, dear.

Now on land and sea descending,
Brings the night its peace profound,
And our evening hymn is blending
With the holy calm around.
Soon as dies the sunset glory
Stars of heaven shine out above,
Telling still the ancient story,—
Their Creator's changeless love.

Now, our wants and burdens leaving
To his care who cares for all,
Cease we fearing, cease we grieving;
At his touch our burdens fall.
As the darkness deepens o'er us,
Lo! eternal stars arise;
Hope and faith and love rise glorious

the branch of plum blossoms—
strong fragrance
of the lord I love

—To my love I whisper, and say
Knowest thou why I love thee?—Nay:
Nay, she saith; O tell me again.—

When in her ear the secret I tell,
She smileth with joy incredible—

—Ha! she is vain—O nay—
—Then tell us! Nay, O nay.

—But this is in my heart,
That Love is Nature's perfect art,
And man hath got his fancy hence,
To clothe his thought in forms of sense.

—Fair are thy works, O man, and fair
Thy dreams of soul in garments rare,
—Beautiful past compare,
Yea, godlike when thou hast the skill

In a grove most rich of shade,
Where birds wanton music made,
May, then young, his pied weeds showing,
New-perfumed with flowers fresh growing,

Astrophel with Stella sweet
Did for mutual comfort meet,
Both within themselves oppressèd,
But each in the other blessèd.

Him great harms had taught much care;
Her fair neck a foul yoke bare:
But her sight his cares did banish;
In his sight her yoke did vanish.

Wept they had, alas the while!
But now tears themselves did smile,

Late tired with woe, e'en ready for to pine
With rage of love, I called my love unkind;
She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine,
Sweet said that I true love in her should find.
I joyed, but straight thus watered was my wine,
That love she did, but loved a love not blind,
Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline
From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind:
And therefore by her love's authority,
Willed me these tempests of vain love to fly,
And anchor fast myself on virtue's shore.
Alas, if this the only metal be

With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face.
What, may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet