poems about love

Unknown love
Is as bitter a thing
As the maiden-lily
Which grows in the thickets
Of the summer moor.

O Time has a kiss
For every Miss
And a bed for every Trull!
But thou, my Dearie,
O! Come not near me,
Our love is a wheeling gull.
Lovely he flies 'twixt sea and skies,
He's a silly bird on land.
No wrath of black weathers
Will ruffle his feathers
Like the touch of a capturing hand.

Think you that I will drain the dregs of Love,
I who have quaffed the sweetness on its brink?
Now by the steadfast burning stars above,
Better to faint of thirst than thuswise drink.
What! shall we twain who saw love's glorious fires
Flame toward the sky and flush Heaven's self with light,
Crouch by the embers as the glow expires,
And huddle closer from mere dread of night?
No! cast love's goblet in oblivion's well,
Scatter love's ashes o'er the field of time!
Yet, ere we part, one kiss whereon to dwell

My lodging it is on the cold ground,
And very hard is my fare,
But that which troubles me most, is
The unkindness of my dear.
Yet still I cry, "O turn love,'
And I prithee love turn to me,
For thou art the man that I long for,
And alack, what remedy.

I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then,
And I'll marry thee with a rush ring,
My frozen hopes shall thaw then,
And merrily we will sing,
O turn to me my dear love,
And prithee love turn to me,
For thou art the man that alone canst
Procure my Liberty.

The full moon would resemble thee, were it not freckled; and the
sun would be like thee, were it not eclipsed.
Verily I wonder—but how full is love of wonders: accompanied by
anxieties and passion!—
That I see the way short when I go to the beloved, and long when I
journey away from her.

Oh had I the wings of a dove!
Far, far from the world would I fly,
And seek a new home for my love
In those happier regions on high.

I am weary of this lower earth,
Its turmoils, its hopes, and its fears;
The mourning that follows its mirth,
Its mirth that is sadder than tears!

But there is a world yet to come,
By God's presence eternally blest,
Where the good shall inherit a home,
And the weary for ever shall rest.

Oh had I the wings of the dove!
Far, far from the world would I fly,

I am not moved to love thee, my Lord God,
By the heaven thou hast promised me;
I am not moved by the sore dreaded hell
to forbear me from offending thee.

I am moved by thee, Lord; I am moved
at seeing thee nailed upon the cross and mocked;
I am moved by thy body all over wounds;
I am moved by thy dishonor and thy death.

I am moved, last, by thy love, in such a wise
that though there were no heaven I still should love thee,
and though there were no hell I still should fear thee.

I long to talk with some old lover's ghost
Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.

Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practiced it,
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency

See, see, mine own sweet jewel,
See what I have here for my darling:
A robin-redbreast and a starling.
These I give both, in hope to move thee—
And yet thou say'st I do not love thee.

I sat wi' my love, and I drank wi' my love,
And my love she gave me light;
I'll give any man a pint o' wine
To read my riddle right.