poems about love

There is a garden, which I think He loves
Who loveth all things fair;
And once the Master of the flowers came
To teach love-lessons there.

He touched my eyes, and in the open sun.
They walked, the Holy Dead,
Trailing their washen robes across the turf,
An aureole round each head.

One said, with wisdom in his infant eyes,—
‘The world I never knew;
‘But, love the Holy Child of Bethlehem,
‘And He will love you too.’

One said—‘The victory is hard to win,
‘But love shall conquer death.

Love, in Rosy Fetters caught,
To my Fair the Muses brought;
Gifts his Mother did prefer
To release the Prisoner;
But hee'd not be gone though free,
Pleas'd with his Captivity.

Now when I see your face, sweetheart, I know
What the rose feels that through the chilling night
Yearns for the sun, despairingly, when lo!
The sudden warmth, the glorious, great light!

Now when I hear your voice, sweetheart, I know
What the rose feels that drought hath almost slain,
That, thirsting, droops disconsolate, when lo!
The swift, cold air, the rapture of the rain!

M Y heart hath its Springtime, yea,
Its thrill of primal happiness,
Its swift, keen days of gold and gray,
Its crescent moon of promises.

I COME to thee blind, despairing,
I grope where I may not see:
Love, thou worker of miracles,
Open my eyes for me.

I come to thee deaf, unheeding,
Beggared of sound and voice:
Love, thou maker of marvels,
Bid me hear and rejoice.

I come to thee shunned—a leper,
Scorned in the sight of men:
Love, whose pardon is cleansing,
Make thou me clean again.

Love, thou worker of miracles,
Maker of marvels sweet,
Love, whose pardon is cleansing,
These my tears on thy feet.

Oh, ask not what is love, she said,
Or ask it not of me;
Or of the heart, or of the head,
Or if at all it be.

Oh, ask it not, she said, she said,
Thou winn'st not word from me!
—Oh, silent as the long long dead,
I, Lady, learn of thee.

I ask,—thou speakest not,—and still
I ask, and look to thee;
And lo, without or with a will,
The answer is in me.

Without thy will it came to me?
Ah, with it let it stay;
Ah, with it, yes, abide in me,
Nor only for today!

I thought of art, love.
We all must fare
The same kind of muse
As the traveling glare.

The list of eye cannot withhold
The joy of explanation bold
As foreign lands I'll
Never see.

I'll move for comfort;
I'll think a sleep—
And wake the marble perfume
From which my soul stirs inner deep.

MOTHER of Mildness! rosey-featur'd May !
In every varied bloom, voluptuous, drest,
I feel, I feel thy vivifying my
Inform, afresh, my animated breast!

My spirit, lighter than the woodlark's wing,
Ascending to salute the dewey dawn,
Pursues thy countless beauties, as they spring
O'er blossom'd bow'r, gay bank, or shaven lawn.

Flush'd with ethereal fervour, all around
Luxuriant landscapes fill the raptur'd sight,
Imagination's wildest wish is crown'd,
And Fancy's self is satiate of delight:

All my past Life is mine no more,
The flying Hours are gone:
Like transitory Dreams giv'n o'er,
Whose Images are kept in store
By Memory alone.

The Time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present Moment's all my Lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

The talk not of Inconstancy,
False Hearts, and broken Vows;
If I, by Miracle, can be
This live-long Minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heav'n allows.

When those we love are present to the sight,
When those we love hear fond affection's words,
The heart is cheerful, as in morning light
The merry song of early-wakened birds:
And oh! the atmosphere of home—how bright
It floats around us, when we sit together
Under a bower of vines in Summer weather,
Or round the hearth-stone in a Winter's night!
This is a picture, not by Fancy drawn—
The eve of life contrasted with its dawn—
A gray-haired man—a girl with sunny eyes;
He seems to speak, and laughing, she replies—

1. Our kind Creator formed our voice, To
2. Music, with all its heavenly charms, In-
speak his praise in grateful joys; His saints on earth
vites us to our Saviour's arms; Where millions par
and saints above, Concordant sing his boundless love.
doned by his blood, In sweetest praise adore their God.

3. When parents lead in sacred songs,
Children pursue with cheerful tongues;
'Till true harmonic chords excite
The whole to joy's sublime delight.

4. For heaven itself consists in praise,
Expressed the most delightful ways;