poems about love

Out I came from the dancing-place,
The night-wind met me face to face,—

A wind off the harbor, cold and keen,
“I know,” it whistled, “where thou hast been.”

A faint voice fell from the stars above—
“Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!”

I found when I reached my lonely room
A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.

And this was the worst of all to bear,
For some one had left white lilac there.

The flower you loved, in times that were.

“Say, where is the maiden sweet,
Whom you once so sweetly sung,
When the flames of mighty heat
Filled your heart and fired your tongue?”

Ah, those flames no longer burn,
Cold and drear the heart that fed;
And this book is but the urn
Of the ashes of love dead.

My love for thee doth march like armèd men,
Against a queenly city they would take.
Along the army's front its banners shake;
Across the mountain and the sun-smit plain
It steadfast sweeps as sweeps the steadfast rain;
And now the trumpet makes the still air quake,
And now the thundering cannon doth awake
Echo on echo, echoing loud again.
But, lo! the conquest higher than bard e'er sung:
Instead of answering cannon, proud surrender!
Joyful the iron gates are open flung
And, for the conqueror, welcome gay and tender!

Cupid no more shall give me grief,
Or anxious cares oppress my soul,
While generous Bacchus brings relief,
And drowns 'em in a flowing bowl.

Celia, thy scorn I now despise,
Thy boasted empires I disown:
This takes the brightness from thy eyes,
And makes it sparkle in my own.

Sometimes, in very joy of shame,
Our flesh becomes one living flame:
And she and I
Are no more separate, but the same.

Ardour and agony unite;
Desire, delirium, delight:
And I and she
Faint in the fierce and fevered night.

Her body music is: and ah,
The accords of lute and viola!
When she and I
Play on live limbs love's opera!

Still to one end they both so justly drew,
As courteous Doves together yok'd would do.
No weight of Birth did on one side prevaile,
Two Twins less even lie in Natures Scale,
They mingled Fates, and both in each did share,
They both were Servants, they both Princes were.
If any Joy to one of them was sent;
It was most his, to whom it least was meant,
And fortunes malice betwixt both was crost,
For striking one, it wounded th'other most.
Never did Marriage such true Union find,
Or mens desires with so glad violence bind;

Poore wasted Hart that wandrest not astray,
Although thy PEARLE her orient colour change:
Thou, which in thy first Faith unstaind dost stay,
Although she from her plighted vow doth range:
Ah, where are now thy cheerfull daies of Hope?
Thy Lives line, Love, what wretched hand hath broke?

Alas, poore soule, how badly art thou usde,
For thy much loving (loving over long?)
Causeles without desert to be refusde,
And for thy right to be repaid with wrong?
(Fond) do betimes from Fancies Fort retire,

Ah happie Handkercher, that keepst the signe,
(As only Monument unto my Fame)
How deare my Love was to sweet ALBA mine,
When (so) to shew my Love she did me blame.
Relique of LOVE I do not envie thee,
Though whom thy Master cannot, thou dost see.

Only let me intreat this Favour small,
When in her chamber all alone by chance,
Open her pretie Casket for some work she shall,
And hap her eye on thee unwares to glance:
Ah, then the colour of her face but marke,
And thou by that shalt know her inward hart.

Haires lovely Browne immur'd with pearle and gold,
How ill fits you this Ribbon Carnatine,
Since I no more your Mistris now behold,
Of my disaster, most unlucky signe,
Who to me gave this Bracelet for a FAVOUR,
A work by Beautie framde through LOVES true labour.

How often would she, bout my Wrist still prie,
And underminde me (by devise) as twere,
Making a shew of Doubt and Jelousie,
As if I it forgot bout me to beare?
But now I feare me, through her staying ore long,
Both LOVE, Her self, and Me, she much doth wrong.

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the merry deer ran before.

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
the swift sweet deer
the red rare deer.

Four red roebuck at a white water
the cruel bugle sang before.

Horn at hip went my love riding
riding the echo down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the level meadows ran before.

Softer be they than slippered sleep