poems about love

A tap of your finger on the drum releases all sounds and initiates the new harmony.
A step of yours is the conscription of the new men and their marching orders.
You look away: the new love!
You look back,—the new love!
“Change our fates, shoot down the plagues, beginning with time,” the children sing to you. “Build wherever you can the substance of our fortunes and our wishes,” they beg you.
Arriving from always, you’ll go away everywhere.

Mine eye, mine ear, my will, my wit, my heart,
Did see, did hear, did like, discern, did love,
Her face, her speech, her fashion, judgment, art,
Which did charme, please, delight, confound and move.
Then fancy, humour, love, conceit and thought,
Did so draw, force, intice, persuade, devise,
That she was won, moved, carried, compassed, wrought,
To think me kind, true, comely, valiant, wise,
That heaven, earth, hell, my folly and her pride,
Did work, contrive, labour, conspire and swear,
To make me scorn'd, vile, cast off, base, defied,

The lover under burthen of his love--
Which like to Etna did his heart oppress--
Did give such piteous groans, that he did move
The heavens at length to pity his distress:
But for the fates in their high court above
Forbade to make the grievous burthen less,
The gracious powers did all conspire to prove
If miracle this mischief might redress.
Therefore, regarding that the load was such
As no man might with one man's might sustain,
And that mild patïence imported much
To him that should endure an endless pain,

Frown on, ye dark and angry clouds;
And, Winter, blow that blast again,
That calls thy wrathful host to pour
Their fury on the wasted plain.

'Tis thus I choose my way to win
To her whose love my bosom warms;
And brighter seems the prize I seek
Seen through the gloom of clouds and storms.

Let colder lovers shrink from these,
And calmly wait for peaceful skies;
Be mine, through toil and pain to win
The beam of Mary's gladdened eyes.

Perhaps she'll value more my love,
Perhaps give more of her's to me,

How shall I guard my soul so that it be
Touched not by thine? And how shall it be brought,
Lifted above thee, unto other things?
Ah, gladly would I hide it utterly
Lost in the dark where are no murmurings,
In strange and silent places that do not
Vibrate when thy deep soul quivers and sings.
But all that touches us two makes us twin,
Even as the bow crossing the violin
Draws but one voice from the two strings that meet.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what great player has us in his hand?
O song most sweet.

Now Serena, bee not coy;
Since wee frely may enjoy
Sweete imbraces: such delights,
As will shorten tedious nightes.
Thinke that beauty will not stay
With you allwaies, but away,
And that tyrannizing face
That now holdes such perfect grace,
Will both chaing'd and ruined bee;
So fraile is all thinges as wee see,
So subject unto conquering Time.
Then gather Flowers in theire prime,
Let them not fall and perish so;
Nature her bountyes did bestow
On us that wee might use them: And
Tis coldnesse not to understand

In the shadow of the rood
Love and Shame together stood;
Love, that bade Him bear the blame
Of her fallen sister Shame;
Shame, that by the pangs thereof
Bade Him break His heart for Love.

O LOVE is like that glow
From lonely lighthouse poured—
That gleam it doth bestow
On sail and mast and cord,
When shore and ocean are
Unkissed by moon or star,
And Dawn in gloom afar
Still sheathes her golden sword.

My soul, a vessel frail,
Is launched on waters wide,
And in the swooping gale
Must through the surges ride.
But while yon lighthouse there
Makes night and tempest fair,
If Fate my barque upbear,
Let Love be lamp and guide.

The martyred Christ of the working class, the inspired evangel of the downtrodden masses, the world's supreme revolutionary leader,
Whose love for the poor and the children of the poor hallowed all the days of His consecrated life, lighted up and made forever holy the dark tragedy of His death, and gave to the ages His divine inspiration and His deathless name.

Walls for the weary summon him to rest.
But he outside the walls has flung his form
Ravaged by wars. The memory-legions swarm
To lull him. Gentle winds above him weep
For Troy. Power comes to him at last, and yet
Aeneas may not sleep.

For a great love, an unforgotten love,
Beats in his arteries and shakes his soul
With sorrow, till, as silent clouds unroll,
Ethereal, and from a balmy height
Sidonian Dido reaches down to him,
And seals his eyes with night.