poems about love

Although thy hand and faith, and good works too,
Have seal'd thy love which nothing should undo,
Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy
Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee.
Women are like the Arts, forc'd unto none,
Open to all searchers, unpriz'd, if unknown.
If I have caught a bird, and let him fly,
Another fowler using these means, as I,
May catch the same bird; and, as these things be,
Women are made for men, not him, nor me.
Foxes and goats, all beasts change when they please,

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace,
As I have seen in one autumnal face.
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame;
Affection here takes reverence's name.
Were her first years the Golden Age; that's true,
But now she's gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.

In a tavern on the Southside of Chicago
a man sits with his wife. From their corner booth
each stares at strangers just beyond the other's shoulder,
nodding to the songs of their youth. Tonight they will not fight.

Thirty years of marriage sits between them
like a bomb. The woman shifts
then rubs her right wrist as the man recalls the day
when they sat on the porch of her parents' home.

Even then he could feel the absence of something
desired or planned. There was the smell
of a freshly tarred driveway, the slow heat,

Come away, come sweet Love,
The golden morning breakes:
All the earth, all the ayre,
Of love and pleasure speakes.
Teach thine armes then to embrace,
And sweet Rosie lips to kisse:
And mixe our soules in mutuall blisse.
Eyes were made for beauties grace,
Viewing, ruing Loves long paine:
Procur'd by beauties rude disdaine.

Come away, come sweet Love,
The golden morning wasts:
While the Sunne from his Sphere
His fierie arrowes casts,
Making all the shadowes flie,
Playing, staying in the Groave:

A LAS for me for that my love is dead!
Buried deep down, and may not rise again;
Self-murdered, vanished, gone beyond recall,
And this is all my pain

'Tis not that she I loved is gone from me,
She lives and grows more lovely day by day;
Not Death could kill my love, but though she lives,
My love has died away.

Nor was it that a form or face more fair
Forswore my troth, for so my love had proved
Eye-deep alone, not rooted in the soul;
And 'twas not thus I loved

In a lovely garden walking
Two lovers went hand in hand;
Two wan, worn figures, talking
They sat in the flowery land.

On the cheek they kissed one another,
On the mouth with sweet refrain;
Fast held they each the other.
And were young and well again.

Two little bells rang shrilly—
The dream went with the hour:
She lay in the cloister stilly,
He far in the dungeon-tower!

Cr[omek] loves artists as he loves his Meat
[Cr—] He loves the Art but tis the Art to Cheat

Tell me not, friend, you are unkind,
If ink and books laid by,
You turn up in a uniform
Looking all smart and spry.

I thought your ink one horrid smudge,
Your books one pile of trash,
And with less fear of smear embrace
A sword, a belt, a sash.

Yet this inconstancy forgive,
Though gold lace I adore,
I could not love the lace so much
Loved I not Lovelace more.

Oh, heavenly gift of Love Divine,
The Spirit's grace and power;
Come, in our hearts abide, and shine;
How long delayed thine hour!

“Ask and receive,” the Savior said,
“And seek, and ye shall find;”
For we are weak without thine aid,
Without thy light are blind.

Our heavenly Father loves us all;
More ready He to give,
Than we upon his name to call,
To turn to Him and live.

Lord, for thy coming us prepare,
As Spring's soft showers the earth;
That we may, in the harvest, share,

Lift me far beyond the region
Where frail earthly loves abound:
Rose-sweet lips on earth are legion,—
Myriad flowers star earthly ground,—
Lift me, God, to thine own dwelling
Where thy ceaseless love is welling
Forth, and thy great peace is found.

Lo! I weary of all the passion
That the old pale earth provides:
Women's lips and love's same fashion,
Flowers and laughter, songs and brides:
Take me where some love is deathless;
Plant me 'mid thy snow-peaks breathless;
'Mid the plunge of thy great tides.