poems about love

Sweet is the solace of thy love,
My heavenly Friend, to me,
While through the hidden way of faith
I journey home with thee,
Learning by quiet thankfulness
As a dear child to be.

Oft in a dark and lonely place
I hush my hastened breath,
To hear the comfortable words
Thy loving Spirit saith;
And feel my safety in thy hand
From every kind of death.

O there is nothing in the world
To weigh against thy will;
E'en the dark times I dread the most
Thy covenant fulfil;

O TENDER love of long ago,
O buried love, so near me still,
On tides of thought that ebb and flow,
Beyond the empire of the will;
To-night with mingled joy and pain
I fold thee to my heart again.

And down the meadows, dear, we stray,
And under woods still clothed in green,
Though many Springs have passed away
And many harvests there have been,
Since through the youth-enchanted land
We wandered idly hand in hand.

Then every brook was loud with song,
And every tree was stirred with love,

You pleasant floury meade
Which I did once well love
Your pathes no more I'le tread
Your pleasures noe more prove
Your beauty more admire
Your coulers more adore
Nor gras with daintiest store
Of sweets to breed desire;

Walks once soe sought for now
I shunn you for the darcke,
Birds to whose song did bow
My eares your notes nere mark;
Brooke which soe pleasing was
Upon whose banks I lay,
And on my pipe did play
Now, unreguarded pass;

Meadowes, pathes, grass, flouers

Love, and Reason once att warr
Jove came downe to end the jarr;
Cupid said love must have place
Reason that itt was his grace.

Jove then brought itt to this end:
Reason should on love attend
Love takes reason for his guid
Reason can nott from love slide.

This agreed, they pleasd did part
Reason ruling Cupids dart
Soe as sure love can nott miss
Since that reason ruler is.

Love thy powerfull hand withdraw,
All doe yeeld unto thy law;
Rebells now thy subjects bee,
Bound they are who late were free,
Most confess thy power, and might,
All harts yeeld unto thy right;
Thoughts directed ar by thee,
Souls doe strive thy joys to see;
Pitty then, and mercy give
Unto them wher you doe live;
They your images doe prove,
In them may you see great love;
They your mirours, you theyr eye
By which they true love doe spy.
Cease awhile theyr cruell smarts
And beehold theyr yeelding harts;

O, THE LOVELY RIVERS and lakes of Maine!
I am charmed with their names, as my song will explain;
Aboriginal muses inspire my strain,
While I sing the bright rivers and lakes of Maine—
From Cupsuptic to Cheputmatticook,
From Sagadahock to Pohenegamook—
'gamook, 'gamook,
Pohenegamook,
From Sagadahock to Pohenegamook.

For light serenading the “Blue Moselle,”
“Bonnie Doon” and “Sweet Avon” may do very well;
But the rivers of Maine, in their wild solitudes,
Bring a thunderous sound from the depth of the woods:

Some love is light and fleets away,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
Some love is deep and scorns decay,
Ah, well-a-day! in vain.

Of loyal love I sing this lay,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
'Tis of a knight and lady gay,
Ah! well-a-day! bright twain.

He loved her—heart loved ne'er so well,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
She was a cold and proud damsel,
Ah, well-a-day! and vain.

He loved her—oh, he loved her long,
Heigho! the Wind and Rain;
But she for love gave bitter wrong,
Ah, well-a-day! Disdain!

Where is that Learned Wretch that knows
What are those Darts the Veyl'd God throws?
O let him tell me ere I dye
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the Sparrows Plumes, or Doves,
Wing them for various Loves;
And whether Gold, or Lead,
Quicken, or dull the Head:
I will annoint and keep them warm,
And make the Weapons heale the Harm.

Fond that I am to aske! who ere
Did yet see thought? or Silence hear?
Safe from the search of humane Eye
These Arrows (as their waies are) flie:

Ere Love from barren Chaos drew the skies,
Piercing its womb that hid the light of day,
Beneath primæval earth's and water's sway
The shapeless Heavens lay whelmed, in dark disguise.

Even so my sluggish soul, too dull to rise,
Within this body's gross and heavy clay
Without or form or feature shapeless lay
Until Love's arrow pierced it from your eyes.

Love brought me life and power and truth and light,
Made pure my inmost heart through his control,
And shaped my being to a perfect whole.

And if she should ask,
“Look how drenched through
they are—
the sleeves of your robe!
What is it
that has made them so?”
how am I to reply?