poems about love

From babyhood I have known the beauty of earth—
I learnt it, I think, in the strange months before birth,
I learnt it passing and passing by each moon
From the harvest month into my natal June.
My mother, the dear, the lovely I hardly knew,
Bearing me must have walked and wandered through
Stubble of silver or gold, as moon or sun
Lit earth in the days when my body was begun.
And then October with leaves splendid and blown
She watched with my little body a little grown,
And winter fell, and into our being passed

Let it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years,
I have had, and have, my peers;
Poets, though divine, are men:
Some have loved as old again.
And it is not always face,
Clothes, or fortune gives the grace,
Or the feature, or the youth;
But the language, and the truth,
With the ardour and the passion,
Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you will then read the story,
First prepare you to be sorry
That you never knew till now
Either whom to love, or how;

Too weary
is my heart
to advance
any further
on the way of love—
a horse
not up
to the race,
slowly being left

There are two angels, messengers of light,
Both born of God, who yet are bitterest foes.
No human breast their dual presence knows.
As violently opposed as wrong and right,
When one draws near, the other takes swift flight.
And when one enters, thence the other goes.
Till mortal life in the immortal flows,
So must these two avoid each other's sight.
Despair and hope may meet within one heart,
The vulture may be comrade to the dove!
Pleasure and Pain swear friendship leal and true:
But till the grave unites them, still apart

I cannot love, as I have lov'd before:
For, I'm grown old; &, with mine age, grown poore:
Love must be fed by wealth: this blood of mine
Must needs wax cold, if wanting bread and wine.

When I am old, and think of the old days,
And warm my hands before a little blaze,
Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire,
I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire,
One face, mysterious and exquisite;
And I shall gaze, and ponder over it,
Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought
That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought
Burns inward, a revealing flame, and glows
To the last ecstasy, which is repose?
Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes?
And, musing thus among my memories,
O unforgotten! you will come to seem,

O love, what do they know who only know
Thee as a god of grace and loving-kindness:
Who will adore thee only if thou show
Such gentle light as will not pierce their blindness,
But flee the crucible where thou dost try
Whether of gold or dross our lives are made,
And for the bowers of consolation sigh
When as a man of war thou com'st arrayed?
For light (though love without) within is fire:
Thou art all fire, O Love! and thou in me
Must burn with flames that leap for ever higher
Till there is nothing left in me but thee;

Come to me, maiden fair,
Maiden with golden hair,
Now that the vesper air
Trembles no more with prayer!

Come where the Zingaree,
Under the linden tree,
Spurring his comrades three,
Pipes a wild jubilee!

Come, while their tabor's beat
Urges the dancers fleet;
Come, let thy tiny feet
Mine on the meadow meet!

Bounding we gaily start;
Flashes thy blue eyes dart:
Spare thou my captive heart;
Or—let us never part!

Strains gently sighing in the air, love,

Not lost in a languor of blisses,
In valleys sweet-breathing of bloom,
Though roses are fain of her kisses
And stars braid her brows in the gloom;
Though lilies lean to her and love her,
And the love-song is sweet in her mouth,
And the world green—the skies blue above her—
Sing the South! Sing the South! Sing the South!

In the strength of high faith she hath risen,
Her flag on her mountains unfurled;
She hath rent the great hills that imprison
The glittering wealth of a world.
With the thrill of a new life elated

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
He 's past full manhood's prime;
He never stole a curl from me,
Or sent me bits of rhyme.
But when he folds me in his arm,
I feel so sweetly safe from harm!

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
No fickle, foolish boy;
And time has written on his face
The lines of pain and joy.
He often looks both tired and sad,
But I—what joy!—can make him glad.

He 's no lad,—my love 's no lad,—
His youth has passed him by;
And though I had no part in it,
I cannot breathe one sigh,