poems about love

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
With fervor, deep and wild,
Thy beauty's charm most strangely,
My spirit hath beguiled.

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
The Spring's first, freshest flower,
Comes not across my spirit,
With such a holy power.

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
The fibres of my heart
Are closely twined about thee,
As if by magic art.

I see thee--oh! I see thee,
In the sunbeam, in the bud,
In all that's fair in nature,
In all that's bright and good.

When summer's rosy twilight fell,
Upon yon river's gentle swell,
Leading the spirit by its song,
As through the land it sweeps along;

We watched the stars, those worlds of love,
That swim yon azure seas above--
We heard each other's heart-pulse beat,
In unison divinely sweet.

Your virgin hand was laid in mine,
I gazed into your spirit's shrine:
We lost the sense of stars and earth,
And of the dancing waters' mirth:

We only saw each other then;
We look'd as if no more again,

And art thou proud, my darling love?
Thus should it ever be;
For beauty hath, the clearest right,
Of sovereign majesty.

Oh! art thou proud, my darling love!
Then not to do thee wrong,
Thou e'er shalt reign the sole, bright queen,
Within my heart and song.

Hark! the organ's solemn peal
Ascends the lofty fane,
To win the soul's repeal,
From everlasting pain:

To waft the voice of praise
To Him who reigns above,
Which blends with burning lays
Of Seraph's holy love.

Hark! the deep-toned, solemn peal!
Again it strikes the air!
My trembling accents steal
To join the anthem there.

I strive to lift my mind
To God's most holy throne;
And, with my thought refined,
To think on Heaven alone.

But earth-born love intrudes

O poet, would'st thou make a name
That ne'er will die,
But be coeval with the lights
In yonder sky?

Strike not a single, trembling chord,
In the heart-lyre;
But wake the full and sweet accord
Of every wire.

Of joy, of grief, of hopeless love
And pining care,
Of terror, pain, and deep remorse,
And wild despair.

Of Hope, of Faith, of Piety:
Each fibre move;
But yet the sweetest note shall be
The note of Love.

Strike! poet! strike each quiv'ring chord,

Sweet love! and wast thou angry then,
And did a lovely frown,
O'ershade that brow of whitest pearl,
That cheek of softest down?

Nay, be not so; thou can'st not be,
Less lovely to my sight;
Though darkness shade the cliff and vale,
Yet starry is the night!

I dream of thee, beloved one,
When the moon comes o'er the sea,
And hangs her horns of silver,
In yonder forest tree!
I wake from out my slumber,
I think I hear thy voice,
It thrills my list'ning spirit,
It makes my soul rejoice.

Oh love! thy fair, bright image,
Is hov'ring near to mine,
Oh love! I see thy passion,
In those deep eyes of thine:
Ah me! those bright eyes gleaming,
Have bound my senses quite,
Those eyes are o'er me beaming,
The only stars of night.

Oh, love! the dew lies on the flower,
And the stars gleam on the sea;
It is the charm'd, the silent hour,
When I should roam with thee.
The day dies out within the West,
The shadows gather near;
And now sweet fancies fill my breast,
And thou art strangely dear.

Behold! as yonder heavenly moon,
Breaks through the dark-blue sky,
And through night's deepest, stillest noon,
That brightness will supply--
Thy smile thus sheds its heavenly light
Athwart life's deepest gloom,--

I cannot cease to love thee,
Coldest fair!
Though pleading cannot move thee,
And I despair.

Thy beauty was diviner,
Than the summer moon,
And thou didst outshine her,
At her noon.

Thy brow was like the silver
On the star-lit sea;
Thy bright eyes did bewilder
All, as me.

Thy motions were the motions
Of a charmed bird,
As, poised o'er dream-world oceans,
His sweet voice is heard.

Thou wast queenlier far
Than the queenliest flower,
More glorious than a star

Though thou wast passing fair,
And wondrous beauty crown'd thee,
And Fancy's robe most rare,
Forever brightly bound thee:

I could not teach my heart,
To bow in love before thee,
Nor bid the death depart,
Which now hangs darkly o'er thee.

I know a hectic flush
On thy sweet cheek is burning,
That thou dost stilly hush
Thy wrung heart's deepest yearning.

I know that in thy breast,
A serpent closely lurking,
Forbids thee e'er to rest,
Thy utter ruin working.