poems about love

'Twas granted:—but the bitter god of Love,
As in revenge for some disparagement,
Left us to strive, inextricably blent,
Before we knew in truth for what we strove,
Or why we went, unwillingly, who went,
Or whether driven, or who he was that drove.
The countless haps that draw vague heart to heart,
The countless hands that push true hearts apart—
Of these we nothing recked, and nothing knew.
The wonder of the world, the faint surmise,
The clouded looks of hate, the harrowing eyes,
But pierced and pinned together: 'twas one to us.

A poet's moonshine! Yes, for love must lend
Answer to reason, though 'tis bitter breath.
Better wild roses died their natural death
Than evilly or idly them to rend.
The girl was fair as flower the moon beneath,
Gentle and good, and constant to her friend,
Yet out of her own place, not so complete:
Was wedded to her kind—had leave to lack,
But old associations rarely slip.
Tight as a stem of grass within its sheath,
You yet may draw and nibble, touch the sweet
With the tip tongue and browse the tender end

G OD'S Silence! Holiest speech that is
Is but a dew-fall out of this;
And human Love's own tongues of bliss
But broken language caught from His.

Why should we question, though our cry—
“Lord, hear me—answer, or I die!”—
Seems echoed from an empty sky?
He hears—He answers, utterly.

“Lord, answer!” And with shuddering breath,
As those already doomed to death,
We wait for Him who rescueth
The very bird that perisheth.

O sword of doubt, two-edged with pain,
That cuts the quivering heart in twain!

When kindly years have given me grace
To read your spirit through;
To see the starlight on your face,
Upon your hair the dew;

To touch the fingers of your hands,
The shining wealth they hold;
To find in dim and dreamy lands
That tender dusks enfold

The ancient sorrows that were sealed,
The hidden wells of joy,
The secrets that were unrevealed
To one who was a boy.

Then to my patient ponderings
Will fruits of solace fall,
When I have learned through many Springs,
Mighty and mystical,

Just the gods are, and they were not willing
Any heart should bear a double burden.
So it is that, when they gave to woman
Love and its anguish.

Man they made the singer and the seer,
Laid on him the burden of the message,
Bade him voice the gladness and the travail
Borne by the world-soul.

So man sang; but ever, as they listened,
Something lacked, some depth of pain unfathomed,
Some starred height of self-outsoaring rapture
He could not compass.

Something too they missed of patient, lowly

Come all you maids that live at a distance
Many a mile from off your swain,
Come and assist me this very moment
For to pass some time away,
Singing sweetly and completely
Songs of pleasure and of love.
My heart is with you altogether
Though I live not where I love.

Oh when I sleeps I dreams about you,
When I wake I take no rest,
For every instant thinking on you
My heart e'er fixed in your breast.
Oh this cold absence seems at a distance
And many a mile from my true love,
But my heart is with her altogether

Along Yew's banks
As the brush I clove,
Ah! where my lord?
Sad, hungered love!

Along Yew's banks
As the stumps I cut,
Lo! here my lord!
He forgets me not!

As the bream-tails flush
So Court passions fly,
Let them see the away!
Our saviour's nigh!

When the curtains of night
Are pinned back by the stars,
And the beautiful moon sweeps the sky,
I'll remember you,
Love,
In my prayers.

When the curtains of night
Are pinned back by the stars,
And the dew drops of heav'n kiss the rose,
I'll remember you,
Love,
In my prayers.

Around this naked brow of mine
No laurels in close chaplét lie,
Parnassus laughs with all his flow'rs
At such a tuneless Bard as I.
For me, no vagrant blossom dares
Slily to cheat the vigil Nine,
But jeer and flout my steps assail—
Yet will I sing of Love and Wine.

Come! let the plunder'd rose look pale,
Whil'st Halcyone's cheek its colour wears,
Fast let the brimming charger pour,
And stain my bowl with sanguine tears.
Thus whilst I drain the gold mouth'd cup,
And press its blazing lip to mine,

Love mistres is of many myndes,
Yet fewe know whome they serve;
They recken least how little love
Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the witt,
The sence from reason's lore;
She is delightfull in the ryne,
Corrupted in the core.

She shroudeth Vice in Vertue's veyle,
Pretendinge good in ill;
She offreth joy, affordeth greife,
A kisse, where she doth kill.

A honye-shoure raynes from her lippes,
Sweete lightes shyne in her face;
She hath the blushe of virgin mynde,