poems about love

Where honeysuckles round our porch entwine,
Two mated thrushes wove their hidden dwelling,
Some instinct of familiar trust impelling
(More subtly true than timorous design)
Their choice of nesting in that house of vine.
They are returned! each tender bosom swelling,
Athrob with joy of spring, their love retelling,
Intoxicate with song's melodious wine!
Morning and evening, still one madrigal,
In few soft flute-notes warbled sweet and clear,
Quavers upon the perfumed atmosphere!
Their mutual bliss do these dear songsters call,

I must complain, yet doe enjoy my Love;
She is too faire, too rich in lovely parts:
Thence is my grief, for Nature, while she strove
With all her graces and divinest Arts
To form her too too beautifull of hue,
Shee had no leasure left to make her true.

Should I, agriev'd, then wish shee were lesse fayre?
That were repugnant to mine owne desires:
Shee is admir'd, new lovers still repayre;
That kindles daily loves forgetfull fires.
Rest, jealous thoughts, and thus resolve at last:
Shee hath more beauty then becomes the chast.

What had I been, lost Love, if you had loved me?
A woman, smiling as the smiling May,—
As gay of heart as birds that carol gaily
Their sweet young songs to usher in the day—

As ardent as the skies that brood and brighten
O'er the warm fields in summer's happy prime,—
As tender as the veiling grace that softens
The harshest shapes in twilight's tender time.

Like the soft dusk I would have veiled your harshness
With tendernesses that were not your due,—
Your very faults had blossomed into virtues

But for your Terror
Where would be Valour?
What is Love for
But to stand in your way?
Taker and Giver,
For all your endeavour
You leave us with more
Than you touch with decay!

Hours when I love you, are like tranquil pools,
The liquid jewels of the forest, where
The hunted runner dips his hand, and cools
His fevered ankles, and the ferny air
Comes blowing softly on his heaving breast,
Hinting the sacred mystery of rest.

I look upon thy face, and reason says
It is the same;
I hear thy voice; and, just as others do,
I speak thy name.
So cold am I; (O love where hast thou flown
That lit my heart?)
So calm am I; no more thy touch doth make
My life-blood start
To serve thee Thou hast driven sweet love away.
Above thy head
No longer floats the glory of his wings
Eros has fled.

Hide me in your heart, Love,
None but we can know
How with every heart-beat
Love could grow and grow

Till the seed that branched abroad,
How, we could not guess,
Holds us in the shadow
Of its boughs that bless;

And the stars and mountains,
Earth and chanting sea
Seem a mighty music
Sung to you and me;

Time-forgotten meaning,
Poured for us apart,
Murmured out of all the world
To our secret heart.

Hide within my heart, Love.
Never may I know

Love , I marvel what you are!
Heaven in a pearl of dew,
Lilies hearted with a star—
All are you.

Spring along your forehead shines
And the summer blooms your breast.
Graces of autumnal vines
Round you rest.

Birds about a limpid rose
Making song and light of wing
While the warm wind sunny blows,—
So you sing.

Darling, if the little dust,
That I know is merely I,
Have availed to win your trust,

Never to see her nor hear her,
To speak her name aloud never;
Yet hold her always the dearer,
Yet love her forever.

To sleep, and dream I am near her,
To curse the daybeams that sever;
To hold her dearer and dearer,
To love her forever.

To see from day to day clearer
She blights both hope and endeavor;
Yet absolve her, bless her, revere her,
Yet love her forever.

Never to see her nor hear her,
To speak her name aloud never;
To hold her always the dearer,
To love her forever.

Why do I think of stairways
With a rush of hurt surprise?
Wistful as forgotten love
In remembered eyes;
And fitful as the flutter
Of little draughts of air
That linger on a stairway
As though they loved it there.

New and shining stairways,
Stairways worn and old,
Where rooms are prison places
And corridors are cold,
You intrigue with fancy,
You challenge with a lore
Elusive as a moon's light
Shadowing a floor.

You speak to me not only
With the lure of storied art—