poems about love

Dreams come from Jove, the poet says;
But as I watch the smile
That on thy lips now softly plays,
I can but deem the while,
Venus may also send a shade
To whisper to a slumbering maid.

What dark-eyed youth now culls the flower
That radiant brow to grace,
Or whispers in the starry hour
Words fairer than thy face?
Or singles thee from out the throng
To thee to breathe his minstrel song?

The ardent vow that ne'er can fail,
The sigh that is not sad,
The glance that tells a secret tale,

I have no beauty, oh, my Love,
Save what is given by Thee,
Save only when Thy loving eyes
See loveliness in me.

I do not wear it every day
As other women do.
It is a light—it will not stay—
It only comes for You.

Yet I would rather have it so,
A secret thing untamed,
Than have it trapped by alien eyes
Or be too lightly named.

Love, when the sweetness of your love
Beholds a grace in me,
It is as if a golden dove
Lit in a wild-wood tree.

Into the mystery of life,
Dear Lord, I cannot see;
I only know that I exist,
Made and upheld by Thee.

The brooding presence of Thy love
Encircles me about,
Nor leaves me room for any fear,
Nor place for any doubt.

I know Thee in the cloud by day
As in the fire by night;
Both lead me to my promised home,
The land of my delight.

The future cannot yield me proof
More tender or divine,
Than has the past, that all Thy thoughts
To meward are benign.

And backward if I look, I own

I pray you if you love me, bear my joy
A little while, or let me weep your tears;
I, too, have seen the quavering Fate destroy
Your destiny's bright spinning—the dull shears
Meeting not neatly, chewing at the thread,—
Nor can you well be less aware how fine,
How staunch as wire, and how unwarranted
Endures the golden fortune that is mine.
I pray you for this day at least, my dear,
Fare by my side, that journey in the sun;
Else must I turn me from the blossoming year
And walk in grief the way that you have gone.

She never giveSherself for love? No doubt.
She has to buy her loves or do without!

Though from the painted Britons Claudia came,
Her noble soul befits the Roman race,
Her kinship dames of Italy might claim,
Greeks laud her beauty; and by heaven's grace
Offspring she hath, so ere her lovely face
Hath lost its youth, they too shall wed, and she
Loving her lord, in him shall ever place
Her trust, rejoicing in her children three.

Stay , traveller, and pass not by
This noble monument unread,
The city's darling here doth lie,
Wit, art, and grace with him are fled
And Rome doth mourn uncomforted.
Lost is her dear delight and prize,
For love and all desire are dead,
Hid in the grave where Paris lies.

My pleasant solace, my delightful care,
Than whom no heart has ever been more dear,
O give me first a kiss with wine-stained lip
Before I take the cup wherefroMyou sip:
And then if you will love's true joys bestow,
Not Jove himself surpasses me, I trow.

Once a rose ever a rose, we say,
One we loved and who loved us
Remains beloved though gone from day;
To human hearts it must be thus,
The past is sweetly laid away.

Sere and sealed for a day and year,
Smell them, dear Christina, pray;
So nature treats its children dear,
So memory deals with yesterday,
The past is sweetly laid away.

If only I could creep
into each corner
of the heart of the one
who says she loves me
and keep watch.