poems about love

Three days—three nights—with wondering ear
A spiritual voice I heard.
It caroled sweet, it caroled clear,
A strange unearthly Word.

Oh, solemn mirth! Oh, laughter deep!
It seemed a voice in my own breast.
Three days—three nights—it broke my sleep
And triumphed without any rest.

Passionate utterance! Speech divine!
It talked! It murmured! All night long
That mystic tenderness spoke on,
And pierced me with its Heavenly song.

Three days—three nights—I heard it sing,
The voice of that Interior Dove.

I must tell you, my dear,
I'm in love with him, vastly!
Twenty thousand a year,
I must tell you, my dear!
He will soon be a peer—
And such diamonds!—and, lastly,
I must tell you, my dear,
I'm in love with him, vastly!

Canst thou be true across so many miles,
So many days that keep us still apart?
Ah, canst thou live upon remembered smiles,
And ask no warmer comfort for thy heart?

I call thy name right up into the sky,
Dear name, O surely she shall hear and hark!
Nay, though I toss it singing up so high,
It drops again, like yon returning lark.

O be a dove, dear name, and find her breast,
There croon and croodle all the lonely day;
Go tell her that I love her still the best,
So many days, so many miles, away.

Yea , love, I know, and I would have it thus,
I know that not for us
Is springtide Passion with his fire and flowers,
I know this love of ours
Lives not, nor yet may live,
By the dear food that lips and hands can give
Not, Love, that we in some high dream despise
The common lover's common Paradise;
Ah, God, if Thou and I
But one short hour their blessedness might try,
How could we poor ones teach
Those happy ones who half forget them rich:
For if we thus endure,
'Tis only, love, because we are so poor.

But, Song, arise thee on a greater wing,
Nor twitter robin-like of love, nor sing
A pretty dalliance with grief—but try
Some metre like a sky,
Wherein to set
Stars that may linger yet
When I, thy master, shall have come to die
Twitter and tweet
Thy carollings
Of little things,
Of fair and sweet;
For it is meet,
O robin red!
That little theme
Hath little song,
That little head
Hath little dream,
And long

But we have starry business, such a grief

I make this rhyme of my lady and me
To give me ease of my misery,
Of my lady and me I make this rhyme
For lovers in the aftertime.
And I weave its warp from day to day
In a golden loom deep hid away
In my secret heart, where no one goes
But my lady's self, and—no one knows

With bended head all day I pore
On a joyless task, and yet before
My eyes all day, through each weary hour,
Breathes my lady's face like a dewy flower.
Like rain it comes through the dusty air,
Like sun on the meadows to think of her;

O BUBBLE, break! All heaven thou hast
Unsullied in thy heart!
Ere Time its shadow on thee cast
Love calls thee to depart.

The weed mourns on the castle wall,
The grass lies on the chamber floor,
And on the hearth, and in the hall,
Where merry music danced of yore!
And the blood-red wine no longer
Runs,—(how it used to run!)
And the shadows within, grown stronger,
Look black on the mid-day sun!
All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:
'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

The Gardens feed no fruit nor flowers,
But childless seem, and in decay;

but being not amazing: without love
separate, smileless—merely imagine your

sorrow a certain reckoning demands…

marvelling And what may have become of
with his gradual acute lusting glance
an alert clumsily foolish wise

(tracking the beast Tomorrow by her spoor)
over the earth wandering hunter whom you
knew once?
what if (merely suppose)

mine should overhear and answer Who
with the useless flanks and cringing feet
is this (shivering pale naked very poor)
creature of shadow, that among first light

Beneath this beauty when my spirit swayeth
And with the praise of it my soul is stirred,
Love on my lips a wary finger layeth
And bindeth in my heart the eager word!
My heart, that for love's sake these long years holdeth
One dear desire to win all ways of speech,
Whose secret, love himself, I dreamed, unfoldeth—
O, is it silence, Love, that thou wouldst teach?
I have desired to suffer thy sweet burning
And prayed thy fiercest blow should on me fall;
I have grown scarred and wise in bitter learning,