poems about love

The F IRST L OVE -P OEM

Let the hills talk in Wessex,
in Wessex if they have seen
go riding, go riding
My Lady, my Queen.

" In what guise went she? "
She is both tall and pale,
and she doth ride the Wessex hillside
on a White Horse over the Vale.

The hills are dumb in Wessex
With their grief and mine,
for the Queen is gone into captivity
and we look for a sign.

The Queen has gone into captivity
and the world is very wrong,
for the hands of her sons are weakened
and only slaves are strong.

When I am near my dearest love,
My heart is lifted high;
I'm rich, all reckoning above,
The whole world I could buy.

But when from her I must be gone,
Nor feel her fond caress;
Then all my fancied wealth is flown,
I'm poor to wretchedness.

or, LOVE AND THE UNION

A shearer came to a Queensland shed, when most of the sheds were full;
He'd tramped and tramped till his hope was dead, and never got hands in wool.
He'd stuck to the Union, hard and fast, with no one to understand
How his heart had longed, as the weeks dragged past, for his love and his Maoriland.

" Fern and tussock and flax; range and river and sea.
A strain on my heart that will never relax — a heart that will never be free.

Lovely sheaphard ope thine eye,
Sleepe is losse when I stand by. E.
Whoes that who does forbid me sleepe
Has the wolfe disperst my sheepe F.
I keepe thy flocks, they feed secure & free
Would I could guard my hart as well from thee
And I grieve to see thy cruelty E.
I blush to heare of love
As yet I have no cares, but can
To my homely oaten reed
Singe prases of great Pan
But loue they say does sorrow breed F.
Peevish Lad canst thou disdaine
y e silver goddesse of the night
When w th all her starry traine

Love did not know there was a bee sleeping in the roses and was stung; he shook his finger and cried out.
He ran and fluttered to the beautiful Cytherean and exclaimed: " I am killed, mother, I am killed, I shall die! A little winged serpent which peasants call a honey-bee, stabbed me. "
And she answered: " If the sting of a honey-bee hurt so much, how do you think they suffer, Love, who are stung by you? "

Love flays me with a hyacinth rod and bids me to fight.
I dash through the sharp torrents, the forests and the valleys; and my sweat exhausts me.
My heart leaps to my mouth and I desire death.
But Love brushes my brow with soft wings and whispers: " Can you not kiss? "

The husband of Cytherea by the furnace of Lemnos took iron and fashioned the shafts of the loves.
And Aphrodite took sweet honey to anoint the tips, but Love mingled gall with it.
Ares shaking his thick spear, sneered at Love's shaft, but Love said: " It is heavy; those who have felt it know that. "
Ares received the dart; Aphrodite smiled a little. But Ares groaned and cried: " It is heavy indeed — take it from me. " But Love said: " Keep it. "

Horses have marks branded with fire on their flanks and any one can pick out the Persians by their mitres.
When I see lovers I know them at once, for they have a small brand within the soul.

Dear swallow, when you come back with the new year, you weave your nest; and in winter you disappear to the Nile or Memphis.
Love builds ever a nest in my heart; one Desire is winged there and another is an egg and another already half-hatched; and ever comes the cry of the gaping nestlings. And the larger feed the lesser loves.
Those who feed straightway conceive others. What is to be done then? I cannot out-clamour all these loves!