poems about love

Come back and soul's ally Unto my bosom strait be;
Unto this blighted heart A confidant and mate be.

Of yonder wine they sell In Love-liking its tavern,
Give us two cups or three, Though Ramazan-tide may't be.

O wise wayfaring sage, Since thou hast burned the patchcoat,
An effort make and chief Of topers small and great be.

Unto that friend, who said, “My heart for thee is looking,”
Say thou, “Behold, I come In peace: upon the wait be.”

My heart's ableed for love Of that life-giving ruby:

These times deserve no song—they but deride
The poet's holy craft,—nor his alone;
Methinks as little courtesy is shown
To what was chivalry in days of pride:
Honor but meets with mock:—the worldling shakes
His money-bags, and cries—“My strength is here;
O'erthrows my enemy, his empire takes,
And makes the ally serve, the alien fear!”
Is love the object? Cash is conqueror,—
Wins hearts as soon as empires—puts his foot
Upon the best affections, and will spur
His way to eloquence, when Faith stands mute;

The shadowy portals of dim death
Unfold alluringly,
And all my soul importuneth
Unfathomed worlds for thee!
O ye illimitable realms
Of awful amplitude,
From your immensity that whelms
I crave one only good!
From unimaginable wealth
My soul demands but this,
Nor fame, nor power, nor gold, nor health,
A little child's warm kiss!
If I may feel him when I part,
And if he greets me then,
Unsorrowing will my weary heart
Forsake the haunts of men.
Ah me! engulfed in the wild storm,

As the windhover
Drops on the shrew,
Love, O young lover,
Swoops down on you,
Bears your heart heavenward,
Tears it in two;

Swift with his capture
Soars through the light—
Yours the fierce rapture
Of agonised flight,
Talon-torn, terror-winged,
Into blind night.

Moonflower reveals its svelte beauty in the midst of town.
A single fan, mutual love, the two worlds connect.
Incense ashes with the scent gone, the root remains uncut.
Again its pliant vine emerges and clings seductively.

I know a baby, such a baby,—
Round blue eyes and cheeks of pink,
Such an elbow furrowed with dimples,
Such a wrist where creases sink.

“Cuddle and love me, cuddle and love me”
Crows the mouth of coral pink:
Oh the bald head, and oh the sweet lips,
And oh the sleepy eyes that wink!

I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink,
——This many and many a year;
And those three are plagues enough, one would think,
——For one poor mortal to bear.
'Twas drink made me fall into love,
——And love made me run into debt,
And though I have struggled and struggled and strove,
——I cannot get out of them yet.

——There 's nothing but money can cure me,
———And rid me of all my pain;
————'Twill pay all my debts,
———And remove all my lets,
——And my mistress, that cannot endure me,
———Will love me, and love me again:

In heavenly love abiding,
No change my heart shall fear;
And safe is such confiding,
For nothing changes here.
The storm may roar without me,
My heart may low be laid;
But God is round about me,
And can I be dismayed?

Wherever he may guide me,
No want shall turn me back;
My Shepherd is beside me,
And nothing can I lack.
His wisdom ever waketh,
His sight is never dim;
He knows the way he taketh,
And I will walk with him.

Green pastures are before me,
Which yet I have not seen;

I VOW to thee, my country—all earthly things above—
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love,
The love that asks no question: the love that stands the test,
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best:
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And there's another country, I've heard of long ago—
Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know—
We may not count her armies: we may not see her King—

Deare Love, alas, how have I wronged thee,
That ceaselesly thou still dost follow me?
My heart of Diamond cleare, and hard I find,
May yet be pierc'd with one of the same kind,
Which hath in it ingraven a love more pure,
Then spotlesse white, and deepe still to endure,
Wrought in with teares of never resting paine,
Carv'd with the sharpest point of curs'd disdaine.
Raine oft doth wash away a slender marke,
Teares make mine firmer, and as one small sparke
In straw may make a fire: so sparkes of love