poems about love

Love's more delicate than a flower,
And more precious than my life;
My heart is its permanent home,
And I its vigilant guard!

It's love that drew me on
To the flower bush in Shalamar
From my nest in the thorn shrubs
Growing on desolate land.

Tell me how autumn brings only blight,
Leaving spring to repair the damage,
For while yemberzal blooms in spring,
Autumn brings saffron flowers!

Be like Satyabhama, who knew that God
Can never be weighed with wealth.
Rejecting all her diamonds,

He came from her, and though rough and uncouth,
It seemed her tenderness breathed out of him
As he re-worded her sweet sentences.
Even as a stony place, clothed with sweet flowers,
Seems itself to breathe perfume, and to be
Instinct with tenderness, so, fresh from her,
The roughness of his quality was charmed:
Love makes those lovable that deal with him.

When you are with me I put by the world
In having you. When I can hear and see you,
All else is dark and dumb; or is it, Sweet,
You then are all, and I the dreamer know
No life but yours? But when that you are gone,
All things do image you, they do live then
For me, and in a thousand lights and shadows
A thousand voices echo you, until
Your presence dumbs and darkens them again:
Love has so made you, dearest, one with all
In and without me.

Fried potatoes is a dish
Good as any one could wish:
Cheap it is, and appetizing;
Turn a saint to gormandizing:
Good and cheap and tasty too,
Just the thing for Love's Menu.
Love is dainty, and his food,
Even though common, must be good:
Love hath little to disburse,
So his fare must fit his purse:
Love hath fickle appetite,
We his palate must invite:
Crisp and hot, the price a sou,
Fried Potatoes, Love's Menu.

I shall rest no more on the fragrant mosses
Under great trees where the green bough tosses
Scents of the lime; and the wild rose flinging
Sweets to the breeze with their censer swinging,
I shall count no more, as I linger lazy
Deep in the mead, from the pink-tipped daisy,
'Who loves me well, and who leaves me lonely?
Who loves me not, and who loves me only?'

I shall walk no more by the great sea dreaming
Secret dreams, with the black gull screaming,
Child of the cliff and the wan wave falling,

Look at
love's marvellous
ways:

if you shoot an arrow
plant it
till no feather shows;
if you hug
a body, bones
must crunch and crumble;
weld,
the welding must vanish.

Love is then
our lord's love

Horses plainly are descry'd
By the mark upon their side:
Parthians are ditinguished
By the mitres on their head:
But from all men else a lover
I can easily discover,
For upon his easy breast
Love his brand-mark hath imprest.

And if I ask thee for a kiss,
I ask no more than this sweet breeze,
With far less title to the bliss,
Steals every minute at his ease.
And yet how placid is thy brow!
It seems to woo the bold caress,
While now he takes his kiss, and now
All sorts of freedoms with thy dress.

Or if I dare thy hand to touch,
Hath nothing pressed its palm before?
A flower, I'm sure, hath done as much,
And ah! some senseless diamond more.
It strikes me, love, the very rings,
Now sparkling on that hand of thine,

One lesson let us bear in mind-
Be very gentle with our own,
Be to their faults a little blind,
Nor wound them by a look or tone.

Put self behind! turn tender eyes;
Keep back the words that hurt and sting;
We learn, when sorrow makes us wise,
Forbearance is the grandest thing.

Be patient lest some day we turn
Our eyes on loved one fast asleep,
And whisper, as we lean and yearn,
'How often I have made you weep!

'Some loved you not and words let fall
That must have pierced your gentle breast,

The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur'd 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love's last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love's last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, ÒOur meeting we yet may renew:Ó