poems about love

Those lovers, young, may think they know,
But they won't know the score,
Until they're married twenty years,
And then they add some more.

Some lovers must experiment
On ways that 'sex is best; '
But practicing eroticism
Doesn't meet the test.

The thing they need to learn is that
Good sex is tied to love;
And love is the ingredient
There is too little of.

With love they'd learn the meaning of
The many ways to give,
The many ways successful lovers
Learn to love and live.

He sleeps beside me in the bed;
Upon my breast I hold his head;
Oh how I would that we were wed,
For he sails in the morning.

I wish I had not been so kind;
But love is fain and passion blind,
While out of sight is out of mind,
And he ships in the morning.

I feel his bairn stir in my womb;
Poor wee one, born to bitter doom;
How dreary dark will be the gloom,
When he goes in the morning!

A sailor lad has need to court
A loving lass in every port;

Remembering the beloved again again, they eat, frying pieces of their liver,
Like a fruit drink, from the hands of the beloved, they drink the cups of poison.

During the night they cry continuously, washing off sleep from their eyes,
In the morning, they are called the humble ones, and consider themselves lower then everybody.

This body of send of yours contains gold inside it, which can't be seen except,
When you wash pouring water of your tears, the sand and dirt washes off.

The moon spits fire,
Lotuses droop
And loaded with fragrance
Mingle in sad love.

Kokila, bird of spring,
Why do you torture?

Why do you sing
Your love-provoking song?

My lover is not here
And yet the god of love
Schemes on and on.
You do not know the meaning of ‘tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’ is my tomorrow
And water
Escapes the dam of youth.

You are in love,
So is your lover,
And your two banks
Are brimming with the flood.

In the dark shadow of the windless pines
Whose gloomy glory lines the obsequies
Of the gaunt Claudian Aqueduct along
The lone Campagna to sepulchral Rome,
A Northern youth, companionless, reclined,
Pondering on records of the Roman Past,
Kingdom, Republic, Empire, longwhile gone.
Hard-by, through marble tomb revivified,
Rippled and bubbled water crystalline,
Inwelling from the far-off Sabine hills.
When lo! upon the tomb's deep-dinted rim
Slowly there broadened on his gaze two shapes,
Material embodiment of those

greet my love with wine and gladsome lay;
Welcome, thrice welcome, joyous Seventh Day!

Six slaves the weekdays are; I share
With them a round of toil and care,
Yet light the burdens seem, I bear
For your sweet sake, Sabbath, my love!

On the First-day to the accustomed task
I go content, nor reward ask,
Save in your smile, at length, to bask --
Day blessed of God, Sabbath, my love!

Is the Second-day dull, the Third-day unbright?
Hide sun and stars from the Fourth-day's sight?

Whenever the penner of this pome
Regards a lovely country home,
He sighs, in words not insincere,
"I think I'd like to live out here."

And when the builder of this ditty
Returns to this pulsating city,
The perpetrator of this pome
Yearns for a lovely country home.

Listen to the song of the reed flute:
It sings of separation.
Torn from the leaf-layered, wind-voiced
Banks of the pond,
It is joined to sorrow and joy
By a slender sound.
Who, asked Rumi, can understand
The reed's longing to return?
Let its raw lips rest then;
Let all words be brief then.

And I, O Believers, cried Rumi
(Having lost the man he loved),

Your eyes enrapture, and colors pour,
Alas, your love’s arrows score.
Too soon you gave up on the lovers,
Alas, your heart has rocks in store.

Roses blushing red and white,
For delight;
Honeysuckle wreaths above,
For love;
Dim sweet-scented heliotrope,
For hope;
Shining lilies tall and straight,
For royal state;
Dusky pansies, let them be
For memory;
With violets of fragrant breath,
For death.