poems about love

You, who ending never saw
Of pleasures best delighting,
You that cannot wish a thaw.
Who feeles no frost of spighting,
Keeping Cupids hand in awe,
That sees but by your lighting.
Bee not still too cruell bent
Against a soule distressed,
Whose heart love long since hath rent,
And pittilesse oppressed:
But let malice now be spent,
And former ills redressed.
Grieve I doe for what is past,
Let favour then be granted,
Theeves by judgement to dye cast,
Have not of mercy wanted;
But alone at feasts I fast,

You powers divine of love-commanding eyes,
Within whose lids are kept the fires of love;
Close not your selves to ruine me, who lies
In bands of death, while you in darkenesse move.

One looke doth give a sparck to kindle flames
To burne my heart, a martyr to your might,
Receiving one kind smile I find new frames
For love, to build me wholly to your light.

My soule doth fixe all thoughts upon your will,
Gazing unto amazement, greedy how
To see those blessed lights of loves-heaven, bow

O lovers of the future, unto you
I give the wreath my love took joy to wear—
In summer woven, when the golden air
Kissed from the meadow-sweet its pearls of dew.
I give the passion of the wide sea's blue
And the star-blossoms that the black meads bear
To you;—and all we found so very fair,—
The honeysuckle's scent, the tulip's hue.

Love ye the better that we leave you this,
Our passion-legacy:—the lofty night,
The morning's rapture and the storm-wind's bliss;
Aye, more, love's strange immeasurable delight.

When lovely woman wants a favor,
And finds, too late, that man wont bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?

The only way to bring him over,
The last experiment to try,
Whether a husband or a lover,
If he have feeling, is, to cry!

When I with trembling aske if you love still,
My soule afflicted lest I give offence,
Though sensibly discerning my worst ill;
Yet rather then offend, with griefe dispence.

Faintly you say you must; poore recompence
When gratefull love is fore, I see the hill
Which marres my prospect love, and Oh from thence
I tast, and take of losse the poison'd pill.

While one coale lives, the rest dead all about
That still is fire: so your love now burnd out
Tells what you were, though to deceiving led.

It was a dreamer, lying at his ease,
Beneath the blossom-heavy apple-trees.
Then seemed it there came near his rose-hid haunt
A way-worn figure, hollow-eyed and gaunt,
With gaze forever fixed upon the ground,
As seeking for his grave with sighs profound.
The beaded drops stood on his brow like dew:
And ever and anon his palm he drew
Across his temples, as if thought opprest,
By bitter memories that refused him rest.
His name was Care. He was an abject wight,
At whom the youthful dreamer laughed outright,

Torture me not with this or that or this,
Love is my master,
you his lesser self;
while you are Love,
I love you generously,
be Eros,
not a tyrannous, bitter mate:
Love has no charm
when Love is swept to earth:
you'd make a lop-winged god,
frozen and contrite,
of god up-darting
winged for passionate flight.

This my love for thee, my fair one, On what wise shall I assain?
Yea, how long shall I of sorrow For thy sake all night complain?

Long ago past hope of healing Is my frenzied heart become:
Peradventure, of thy tress-tip I may fashion it a chain.

Scope where shall I find and leisure, So the full perplexity,
Which I suffer for thy tress-tip, Once for all I may explain?

What I suffered in the season Of estrangement from thy sight;
'Twere impossible one letter Should the whole of it contain.

Stay holy fires
Of my desires
Flame nott soe fast;
My loves butt young
From bud new sprunge
Scarce knowes loves taste,

Flames showld nott rise
Till sacrifies
Were reddy made;
A love scarce greene
Was never seene
In withring shade,

Stray till 't'is blowne
If then orethrowne
With curst denyes;
Poore hart swell'out
Send flames about
With murdering eyes,

Summon all men
To Court agen
Wher loves inthround,
If they persist
And smiles resist,

Down by the river there grows a green willow;
Sing all for my true love! my true love, O!
I'll weep out the night there, the bank for my pillow,
And all for my true love, my true love, O!
When bleak blows the wind, and tempests are beating,
I'll count all the clouds as I mark them retreating,
For true lovers' joys, well-a-day! are as fleeting.
Sing, O for my true love! my true love, O!

Maids come in pity when I am departed;
Sing all for my true love! my true love, O!
When dead on the bank I am found broken-hearted,