poems about love

Little vale, with fairy meadows!
Trees, that spread your leafy hands!
Flowers, clothed in softest beauty,
Lovelier than eastern lands!
Village! home of every treasure,
Thee we sing in strains of pleasure;
Village in the silent vale,
Lovely village! thee we hail!

How thy pleasant evening-shadows
Make our troubled passions cease;
And thy bright and purling rivers
Fill our souls with hallowed peace.
Village! tender thoughts promoting,
Like the clouds in azure floating;
Village in the silent vale,

With your fair eyes a charming light I see,
For which my own blind eyes would peer in vain;
Stayed by your feet the burden I sustain
Which my lame feet find all to strong for me;
Wingless upon your pinions forth I fly;
Heavenward your spirit stirreth me to strain;
E'en as you will, I blush and blanch again,
Freeze in the sun, burn 'neath a frosty sky.
Your will includes and is the lord of mine;
Life to my thoughts within your heart is given;
My words begin to breathe upon your breath:
Like to the moon am I, that cannot shine

Bless you, bless you, burnie-bee,
Tell me when my wedding be;
If it be tomorrow day,
Take your wings and fly away.
Fly to the east, fly to the west,
Fly to him I love the best.

Lord , when the sense of thy sweet grace
Sends up my soul to seek thy face.
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire,
I dy in love's delicious Fire.
O love, I am thy Sacrifice .
Be still triumphant, blessed eyes.
Still shine on me, fair suns! that I
Still may behold, though still I dy.


Second part.
Though still I dy, I live again;
Still longing so to be still slain,
So gainfull is such losse of breath,
I dy even in desire of death.
Still live in me this loving strife
Of living D EATH and dying L IFE .

Muses, help me; sorrow swarmeth,
Eyes are fraught with seas of languish:
Hapless hope my solace harmeth,
Mind's repast is bitter anguish.

Eye of day regarded never,
Certain trust in world untrusty:
Flattering hope beguileth ever,
Weary old, and wanton lusty.

Dawn of day beholds enthroned
Fortune's darling proud and dreadless:
Darksome night doth hear him moaned,
Who before was rich and needless.

Rob the sphere of lines united,
Make a sudden void in nature:
Force the day to be benighted,

Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
We drenched the altars of Love's sacred grove,
Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
The launching of the coloured moths of Love.
Love's proper myrtle and his mother's zone
We bound about our irreligious brows,
And fettered him with garlands of our own,
And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
And pour our blood upon his altar, here
Henceforward is a grove without a name,

'T WAS now the hour, when love of home melts through
Men's hearts at sea, and longing thoughts portray
The moment when they bade sweet friends adieu;
And the new pilgrim now, on his lone way,
Thrills as he hears the distant vesper bell,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day.

In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose,
Arnaut, great master of the lore of love,
First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart,
Since she was deaf when simpler staves he sang,
And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme,
And in this subtler measure hid his woe.

“Harsh be my lines,” cried Arnaut, “harsh the woe
My lady, that enthorn'd and cruel rose,
Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme!”
But through the metre spake the voice of Love,
And like a wild-wood nightingale he sang

Ah! love!
I shall not seek to penetrate
Your webbed gauze
Nor tease my heart
By queries deep,
But hold you tenderly;
The day is evening,
And I must cull my flowers

V