poems about love

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
Nor wind nor sunshine shall erase
That coat of SMITH'S ENAMEL-O.


Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why not all thy countenance cover
With a TINTO VEIL?
Prithee, why so pale?


Believe me, if all mine enduring young charms,
Which you gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to fade by this evening, pray have no alarms
While I still have my ROSY SACHET.
I should still be a peach, as I am in all truth,

Ah! why does love distract my thoughts,
Disordering my will!
I'm like the pattern on the cloth
Of Michinoku hill,—
All in confusion still.

Astray within a garden bright
I found a tiny wingèd sprite:

He scarce was bigger than a sparrow
And bore a little bow and arrow.

I lifted him up in my arm,
Without a thought of guile or harm;

But merely as it were in play,
With threats to carry him away.

The sport he took in such ill part,
He stuck an arrow in my heart.

And ever since, I have such pain,—
I cannot draw it out again.

And yet, the strangest part is this:
I love the pain as though 't were bliss.

Knowest thou, sweet Mary,
Whereto I aspire?
'Tis my hope to love thee—
This is my desire.
I would e'er be near thee,
Queen most fair and sweet;
Do not, do not drive me
From my Mother's feet.
Then, O Rose most lovely,
Let me hear from thee;
Loving Mother, tell me,
What thou wilt of me.
More I cannot offer—
Lo, I bring my heart;
Lovingly I give it,
Ne'er from thee to part.
Lady, thou didst take it,
'Tis no longer mine;
Long since thou didst love it,
And its love was thine.

When joy in Love's dear eyes
Kisses our own with smiles,
Comes music of sweet bells
That ringing far away,
Laugh heavens into the heart;
But when they cease,
The spacious halls of memory
Are thrilled with echoes of a love
Too strong for speech;
The dim harmonious silences
Blush to a crimson light;
Faith becomes strangely young,
Wisdom matures, and Love
Finds immortality.

Hark thou, my Lesbia, there be none existent
Can truly say she hath been loved by me
As thou hast been. No faith is more consistent
Than that which V. Catullus gives to thee.

How reasonless the state of an emotion!
For wert thou faultless, perfect, and sublime,
I could not like thee; nor would my devotion
And love be less wert thou the Queen of Crime.

Lord, from whose glorious presence came
The truth that made our fathers free,
And kindled in their hearts the flame
Of love to man and love to thee.

Bow the great heavens, thy throne of light,
And fill these walls, as once, of yore,
Thy spirit rested in its might
Upon the ark that Israel bore.

Here, let thy love be strong to draw
Our wavering hearts to do thy will,
And hush them with the holy awe
That makes the rebel passions still.

And while thy children, frail and blind,

I cannot make less red the rose's fold,
Less white the wave,
Less blue the sea, less bright the garner's gold,
Less dark the grave,
Nor make thy soul less beautiful and bold,
Queen of the brave.

Fair love, o'er my heart let thy gentle hand pass.
Dost hear in that chamber the knocking, alas!
A carpenter cross-grained and spiteful dwells there,
Who's making for me a coffin so rare.

There's tapping and rapping by night and by day,
'Tis long since it drove all my slumber away.
Oh, good Master Carpenter, hammer amain,
That soon I may slumber right soundly again.

There are who say we are but dust,
We may be soon, but are not yet,
Nor should be while in Love we trust
And never what he taught forget.