poems about love

I loved the wild spots far from town
& mole hills laced with time
Where birds build free from idle clown
& blossoms live their time

Tho ' 't is all but a dream at the best,
And still, when happiest, soonest o'er,
Yet, even in a dream, to be blest
Is so sweet, that I ask for no more.
The bosom that opes
With earliesThopes,
The soonest finds those hopes untrue;
As flowers that first
In spring-time burst
The earliest wither too!
Ay—'t is all but a dream, etc.

Tho' by friendship we oft are deceived,
And find love's sunshine soon o'ercast,
Yet friendship will still be believed.
And love trusted on to the last.

When fair Amelia's artless smiles,
At first my youthful bosom fir'd;
I look'd and sigh'd from day to day,
But durst not say that I admir'd.

Yet what my tongue could not reveal,
True love's expressive looks betray'd,
Tir'd with restraint, at length I own'd
My passion to the lovely maid.

You should have told me this before,
'Tis now too late, she said, and sigh'd,
Last night arriv'd a lover gay,
My father means me for his bride.

When next my wand'ring heart was caught
By bright Eliza's sparkling eyes,

The distant hills are blue as lips of death;
Between myself and them the hot swamps steam
In fetid curls, which, in the twilight, seem
Like gathering phantoms waiting for my breath;

While in the August heat with chattering teeth
I sit, and icy limbs, and let the stream
Of recollection flow in a dull dream;
Or weave, with marish blooms, my own death-wreath.

O Love that hast undone me, and through whom
I waste in this Maremma: King of Sighs,
Behold thy handmaid in her heavy doom!

It is not four years ago,
I offered forty crowns
To lie with her a night or so:
She answer'd me in frowns.

Not two years since, she meeting me
Did whisper in my ear,
That she would at my service be,
If I contented were.

I told her I was cold as snow,
And had no great desire;
But should be well content to go
To twenty, but no higher.

Some three months since or thereabout,
She, that so coy had been,
Bethought herself and found me out,
And was content to sin.

I was not useful? So
He says, nor young nor strong.
My master ought to know,
I've followed him so long.

For many and many a day
I followed well content,
Might I but go the way
That he, my master, went.

I listened for his foot,
I strove his thought to scan;
For I was but a brute,
And he I loved was man.

O'er all that he held dear,
A patient watch to keep,
With light, attentive ear
I listened in my sleep.

The stealthy foot withdrew,
The daring hand was stayed;

Late, I love but quietness:
Things of this world are no more my concern
Looking back, I've known no better plan
Than this: returning to the grove
Pine breezes: loosen my robe
Mountain moon beams: play my lute.
What, you ask, is Final Truth?
The fisherman's song, strikes deep into the bank.

Beautiful goddess of the night,
Shining gently from above,
Whisper to me, oh, moon so bright,
Whisper of my absent love.
Moon, oh, beautiful moon, so bright,
Shedding gently your radiant light,
Tell me to-night, fair moon, won't you,
Does my sweetheart love me true?

Moon, as upon my pillow white
Your bright beams fall from above,
Bathing my head with mellow light,
Oh, let me dream of my love.
Moon, oh, beautiful moon, so bright,
Let me dream of my love to-night;
Tell me of him, oh, fair moon, do,

Not hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot,
A wreath presaging life we twine;
If God be love, what sleeps below was not
Without a spark divine.

I love the dance of Bacchus, and desire
With blooming youths to join the vocal choir
To chords responsive of the dulcet lyre.

But most of all I love to crown my hair
With purple hyacinths, and eke to share
Love's blisses wantoning with virgins fair.

The shafts of envy, malice, jealousy,
Sting not my heart nor break life's harmony;
Let slander-loving tongues be far from me.

Broils over wine I hate; they spoil good cheer,
And cause the revels graceless to appear;
But dancing to the lute's soft tones and clear—