poems about love

Love, often your delicate fingers beckon,
And always I follow.
Oh, if I could stay, and possess your beauty
Beckoning always!

I SOUGHT my love in yonder flower,
Appearing like an angel star;
I sought her vainly, hour by hour,
Though she be fair as angels are.

I sought my love by yonder tree,
All musical with summer birds;
And sweet the songs, but not for me:
They could not give her sweeter words.

I sought her when the stars gleam'd west,
By stream that glides the veined round;
And I saw heaven in its breast,
And thought at last my love was found!

But, ah! each hope inconstant pass'd;

If you are you—
Then God is good,
Less merciful, less wise
Can scarce be He who made our mould
And doth our sum comprise;
His absolute must wide include
Our greater as His less,
Nor work of His surpass His will
In power to love and bless.

If you are you—
God must be God,
And guessing from your heart He made,
I hail you omen of His love
And cease to be afraid.

Down in green valleys a town in Yorkshire,
I lived at my ease and was free from all care.
I lived at my ease and I got a sweetheart now,
He's my bonny Scotch laddie and his bonnet so blue.

A regiment of soldiers, oh you soon shall hear,
From England to Ireland they did both steer.
There is one lad among them and I do love so true,
For very well he becomes his bonnet so blue.

'Twas early one morning she rose from her bed,
She called to her Sally, her young waiting-maid,
‘Dress me as neat as your two hands can do,

Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes;
Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums
My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain,
As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain.

“The rain is in love with you darling; it's kissing you everywhere,
Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair;
Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise,
I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.”

The fault is not mine if I love you too much,
—I loved you too little too long,
Such ever your graces, your tenderness such,
—And the music the heart gave the tongue.

A time is now coming when Love must be gone,
—Though he never abandoned me yet.
Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown,
—Our follies (ah can you?) forget.

Love is more sweet than flowers,
But sooner dying;
Warmer than sunny hours,
But faster flying;

Softer than music's whispers
Springing with day
To murmur till the vespers,
Then die away;

More kind than friendship's greeting,
But as untrue,
Brighter than hope, but fleeting
More swiftly too;

Like breath of summer breezes
Gently it sighs,
But soon, alas! one ceases,
The other dies;

And like an inundation
It leaves behind
An utter desolation
Of heart and mind.

The Gods require the thighes
Of Beeves for sacrifice;
Which rosted, we the steam
Must sacrifice to them:
Who though they do not eat,
Yet love the smell of meat.

Above,
The stars are bursting into bloom,
My love;
Below, unfolds the evening gloom.
Come, let us roam the long lane thro',
My love, just as we used to do.

The birds
Of twilight twitter, sweet and low,
And fly to rest, and homeward go
The herds.
Come, let the long lane lead us as it will,
My love, a-winding thro' the evening still.

Behold
How now the full-blown stars are spread,
Like large white lilies, overhead!
But fold
They must, and fade at gray daylight,

N ELLIE , your hair of night, your eyes
Haunt me so far away,
Where are our words of love, our sighs,
Our kisses where are they?

The life that once was ours, the light
Of love, say not that they
Have gone for ever in the night,
Have wholly passed away!