poems about love

Oh , how could I venture to love one like thee,
And you not despise a poor conquest like me,
On lords, thy admirers, could look wi' disdain,
And knew I was naething, yet pitied my pain?
You said, while they teased you with nonsense and dress,
When real the passion, the vanity's less;
You saw through that silence which others despise,
And, while beaux were a-talking, read love in my eyes

Oh, how shall I fauld thee, and kiss a' thy charms,
Till, fainting wi' pleasure, I die in your arms;

Oh , unhappy stars! your fate I mourn,
Ye by whom the sea-toss'd sailor's lighted,
Who with radiant beams the heav'ns adorn,
But by gods and men are unrequited:
For ye love not,—ne'er have learnt to love!
Ceaselessly in endless dance ye move,
In the spacious sky your charms displaying.
What far travels ye have hasten'd through,
Since, within my loved one's arms delaying,
I've forgotten you and midnight too!

1. I love the Lord, because he doth My voice and prayer hear,
2. The pangs of death on every side About beset me round;
And in my days will call because He bowed to me his ear.
The pains of hell gat hold on me, Distress and grief I found.

3. Upon Jehovah's name therefore
I callèd and did say,
Deliver thou my soul, O Lord,
I do thee humbly pray.

4. Gracious the Lord and just, our God
Is merciful also.
The Lord the simple keeps, and he
Saved me when I was low.

5. O thou, my soul, do thou return

If, Lord, Thy love for me is strong
As this which binds me unto Thee,
What holds me from Thee, Lord, so long,
What holds Thee, Lord, so long from me?

O soul, what then desirest thou?
--Lord, I would see Thee, who thus choose Thee.
What fears can yet assail thee now?
--All that I fear is but to lose Thee.

Love's whole possession I entreat,
Lord, make my soul Thine own abode,
And I will build a nest so sweet
It may not be too poor for God.

O soul in God hidden from sin,
What more desires for thee remain,

I love the stone of your threshold,
I love the path without it,
I love the briar in its borders,
With the brave young plants about it
There is pleasure in sight of your windows,
And passing, in decorous night,
I smile my love to your window
And bow my love to your light.

Together by bright water
We sat, my love and I.
Light as a skimming swallow
The perfect hour went by
With words like ripples breaking
On full thoughts softly waking;
With thoughts so dear and shy
That no word dared to follow.

Down by that sunny water
The spring's sweet voice we heard.
The wind, the leaves' young lover,
My love's hair gently stirred.
An hour ago we parted;
I wander heavy-hearted.
Heavily, like a wounded bird,
The day lags, night draws over.

What is war and all its joys?
Useless mischief, empty noise.
What are arms and trophies won?
Spangles glittering in the sun.
Rosy Bacchus, give me wine,
Happiness is only thine!

What is love without the bowl?
'Tis a languor of the soul:
Crowned with ivy, Venus charms;
Ivy courts me to her arms.
Bacchus, give me love and wine,
Happiness is only thine!

Oh , this love—this love!
I ainse the passion slighted;
But hearts that truly love,
Must break or be united.
Oh, this love!

When first he cam' to woo,
I little cared aboot him;
But seene I felt as though
I could na' live without him.
Oh, this love!

He brought to me the ring,
My hand asked o' my mither—
I could na' bear the thought
That he should wed anither.
Oh, this love!

And now I'm a' his ain—
In a' his joys I mingle;
Nac for the wealth of warlds

Let us sing in chorus praises
Of jolly buxom Bacchus.
Long live the purple vintage,
Long live the wine-vat's treasure,
And long live we to quaff it.

We love the sparkling colours
Of wine, we love carousals.
Pale cheeks the wine-bowl flushes,
It kindles eyes with love-light,
And dullards' tongues makes witty.

Who worships not the wine-god,
And when the goblet circles
Refuses to be merry,
May he be changed by Circe
To a frog, and croak in marshes.

Till I have peace with thee, war other men,
And when I have peace, can I leave thee then?
All other wars are scrupulous; only thou
O fair free city, mayst thyself allow
To any one. In Flanders, who can tell
Whether the master press, or men rebel?
Only we know, that which all idiots say,
They bear most blows which come to part the fray.
France in her lunatic giddiness did hate
Ever our men, yea and our God of late;
Yet she relies upon our angels well,
Which ne'er return; no more than they which fell.