poems about love

Methought I saw the lovers Time has known—
Not Helen with the earth-flame in her eyes,
Neither Francesca with her stifled moan,
Nor any like to these, but otherwise.

Quiet, unluted lovers all obscure,
Sweet as with garden fragrance and still dew,
Whose passions were both prosperous and pure,
Whose lives were all their loveliest dreams made true.

They crouched not low bewailing mournful chance,
But seemed strong souls beneath the day's white star,
Revealed a moment in my breathless trance,

Far more priceless than the diamonds rare from Golconda's rich mine;
Far more precious than the laurel wreaths that victor's brows entwine,
Is the garland that fond memory weaves, and twines about the heart—
For care nor time, nor war nor crime, can make its tints depart.

A mother's love! most sacred boon to mortals ever given;
'Tis not of earth; a mother's love was surely born in heaven!
See with what gentle, tender care her darling child she shields
From harms of life, from every strife this sphere terrestrial yields!

Coy , sweet maid, I love so well,
Fair Estelle.
How much I love thee tongue can't tell,
Sweet Estelle.
But I love thee—love thee true—
More than violets love the dew,
More than roses love the sun—
Do I love thee, dearest one,
Dear Estelle!

Ah! my heart love's passions swell
For Estelle!
How I love my actions tell
Thee, Estelle:
That I love thy smiling face,
And thy captivating grace—
Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes
More than planets love the skies,
Wee Estelle!

Loose hands and part: I am not she you sought,
——The fair one whom in all our dreams you see,
——But something more of earth and less than she,
That crowded her an instant from your thought.
Blameless we face the fate this hour has brought.
——Unwitting I took hers; I set you free
——From all that you unwitting gave to me;
Seek her and find her; I do grudge her naught.
Love, after daylight, dark; so there is left
——This season stripped of you; but yet I know,
Remembering the old, I cannot make
These new days bitter or myself bereft.

I love the church that Jesus bought,
And know that it is right;
I go there on Sunday morning,
But not on Sunday night.

I love to sing the songs of God,
Such worship must be right,
This I do on Sunday morn,
But not on Sunday night.

God bless the preacher too,
And give him power and might,
But put the sinner in his place,
I won't be there Sunday night.

I love to hear the Gospel too,
It gives me pure delight;
I hear it on Sunday morning,
But not on Sunday night.

Now I no longer wait my love to tell,
As 't were a weakness love should not commit;
E'en did avowal my fond hope dispel,
My passion would of weakness me acquit.
Enamoured thus and holden by its spell,
Evasive words disloyal were, unfit
To emphasize the exquisite happiness
My boldest accents falteringly express;
Here, take my hand, and, life-long wedded, lead
Me by thy side; and, with my hand, my heart
Given thee long since in thought, given now in deed;
My life, my love, shall play no faithless part.

No more the slow stream spreading clear in sunlight
Lacing the swamp with intricate shining channels
Patterned by wind and the dipping tall marsh grasses:

No more the mica glint in the sliding water
The bright-winged flies and the muskrat gone like a shadow
No more the curved trout breaking concentric silver:

Now the basalt cliffs and the yellow foam in the eddies
Now the strong brown water boiling deeply from under
Now the log abutment left where the bridge has fallen:

O the slow stream lovely, lovely no more in sunlight:

I DO forgive you for the pain I bear,
Though bitter pain is mingled with my bliss;
For still I think, while thrilling to your kiss,
“He found that other woman much more fair.”
I read your words, and see, immortal there,
Another love—how warm it was to this!
And know that from my face you still must miss
The beauty that another used to wear.

Yet I forgive you, Dear, and bow my head
To Destiny, my master and your own,—
He sets the way wherein my feet must tread;
And if he give me nothing quite mine own,—

Sweet day, sun-born, dew-kist,
Noontide of gold
And sunset amethyst,
Shades that enfold
The whispering light,
Hushed, star-eyed night—
'Twas such a day as this,
With glory-morn,
When, out of viewless bliss,
You, Love, were born.

Night's sun-expectant hush,
Earth's wonder-dawn,
Shy daybreak's beauty-blush,
The shadows gone;
All are bedight
With joy-thrilled light,
Nor is it strange, I wis,
This rare, sweet morn,
That on a day like this,
You, Love, were born.

One lovely name adorns my song,
And, dwelling in the heart,
For ever falters at the tongue,
And trembles to depart.