poems about love

Where servants against masters do rebel,
The commonweal may be accounted hell.
For if the feet the head shall hold in scorn.
The city's state will fall, and be forlorn.
This error, London! waiteth on thy state!
Servants, amend; and masters, leave to hate!
Let Love abound; and Virtue reign in all,
So God will hold his hand, that threatneth thrall!

In whatso love-questing, wherein, Excepting fireflaught, there is not,
For amaze, if a harvest consume, Sure reason in aught there is not.

A bird, to whose heart it ne'er fell With sorrow to make acquaintance,
A branch on the tree of his life, With leaves of mirth fraught, there is not.

No help in Love's workshop there is For infidelity's presence:
What fuel is there for Hell-fire, If Boulehéb naught there is not?

In the soul-sellers' canon good works In toping consist and good breeding;

I love summer, the season of flowers,
When the birds sing beneath the bloom;
But I consider winter more pleasing,
For more enjoyment is accorded me;
And when one sees one's source of joy
It is right and proper
That one should be more charming and cheerful.

Now I have joy and am happy,
And my honor has been restored,
And never will I go elsewhere,
And I will not seek others' winnings,
For now I know indeed
That whoever waits is wise,
And whoever frets is a fool.

I have long been in distress,

What are poets? Are they only drums commanding?
—Trumpets snarling, moving men to hate and ravage?
Were their songs of war the snares of Trade demanding
—Lives, and binding men to gods senile and savage?

What are soldiers? Only power, to be broken
—On the wheels of Business when there is no battle?
“War to end war,” was that but falsely spoken?
—Whom has war set free? Have rifles stopped their rattle?

Many suffer hunger while the few still plunder.
—Dreams of peace and brotherhood are all undone.

O, ye who gave to Ireland
Your love and life and all,
Who leaped into the flames of death
When rang her anguished call;
Pray, pray for us this Easter morn
That we may worthy be
Of Ireland's past, of all who died
On Ireland's Calvary.

Ere yet the dawn
Pushed rosy fingers up the arch of day
And smiled its promise to the voiceless prime,
Love sat and patterns wove at life's swift loom.
He flung the suns into the soundless arch,
Appointed them their courses in the deep,
To keep His great time-harmonies and blaze
As beacons in the ebon fields of night.
Love balanced them and held them firm and true,
Poised 'twixt attractive and repulsive drift
Amid the throngs of heaven. What though this power
Was ever known to us as gravity,

Take Time while Time doth last,
Mark how Fair fadeth fast,
Beware if Envy reign,
Take heed of proud Disdain.
Hold fast now in thy youth,
Regard thy vowed Truth,
Lest when thou waxeth old
Friends fail and Love grow cold.

Love's a fever of the mind,
'Tis a grief that none can cure
Till the nymph you love prove kind:
She can give you ease again,
She can best remove the pain
Which you for her endure.

Be not ever, then, repining,
Sighing, denying, canting, whining;
Spend not time in vain pursuing;
If she does not love you—make her;
If she loves you—then forsake her;
'Tis the modish way of wooing.

The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay;
Ah see, who so faire thing doest faine to see,
In springing flowre the image of thy day;
Ah see the Virgin Rose, how sweetly shee
Doth first peepe forth with bashfull modestee,
That fairer seemes, the lesse ye see her may;
Lo see soone after, how more bold and free
Her bared bosome she doth broad display;
Loe see soone after, how she fades, and falles away.
So passeth, in the passing of a day,
Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre,
Ne more doth flourish after first decay,

Perfect love the Father giveth,
Full of grace so rich and free,
Like the rain or dew of morning
Falling now on you and me.

Perfect love is born in Jesus,
Naught of self can victory gain,
Till we find it all in Jesus
All our efforts prove but vain.

Perfect love will never falter
Perfect love will never fear,
And when the days are dark and stormy
Perfect love will always cheer.

Perfect love will never slander,
Friend or foe where e'er they go;
But will raise a fallen brother,