poems about love

Had I known that you were going
I would have given you messages for her,
Now two years dead,
Whom I shall always love.

As it is, should she entreat you how it goes with me,
You must reply: as well as with most, you fancy;
That I love easily, and pass the time.

And she will not know how all day long between
My life and me her shadow intervenes,
A young thin girl,
Wearing a white skirt and a purple sweater
And a narrow pale blue ribbon about her hair.

I used to say to her, “I love you

I smile sometimes amids my greatest grief,
Not for delight, for that long since is fled;
Despair did shut the gate against relief,
When love at first of death the sentence read.
But yet I smile sometimes in midst of pain,
To think what toys do toss my troubled head;
How most I wish, that most I should refrain,
And seek the thing that least I long to find;
And find the wound by which my heart is slain,
Yet want both skill and will to ease my mind.
Against my will I burn with free consent;
I live in pain, and in my pain delight;

The Blessed One hath whispered: There are four
Places most sacred to believing hearts:
First, where the mother's love her Man-child bore,
And watched his little ways and childish arts.

And one, the second, where the Man-child rose
To know the Holy Spirit dwells within
This casement of the body, and he chose
To hold his breathing temple free from sin.

The third, perchance a narrow plot, whereon
The Man-child stood and served his fellow-men,
And loved the service better than a throne,

If there be love within thy heart, proclaim it not abroad.
The searcher of all hearts will know thy heart's inmost feelings.

Hidden, revealed, whate'er I did, the defects of my mind,
O Rama, the searcher of all hearts, all lies plain before Thee.

Let thy prayer and praise be such that no other sees it.
Let none see thy moving lips: keep thy love a secret.

My hand counts no rosary's beads: my tongue names not Rama.
Hari performs all my devotions: and I am given rest.

Alack, for the Loved One left us In sorrow and pain and went;
Like smoke on the top of the furnace She caused us remain and went.

She gave not a cup to the cropsick Of Love's mirth-kindling wine,
But caused us to taste of the bitter Of sev'rance's bane and went.

When once I was fallen her booty, Me wounded and sick at heart
In the sea of chagrin she abandoned, Her steed gave the rein and went.

“By practice”, quoth I, “I may bring her In bonds.” But at me she took fright,

“And love will stay, a summer's day!”
A long wave rippled up the strand,
She flashed a white hand through the spray
And plucked a sea-shell from the sand;
And laughed—“O doubting heart, have peace!
When faith of mine shall fail to thee
This fond, remembering shell will cease
To sing its love, the sea.”

Ah well, sweet summer's past and gone—
And love, perchance, shuns wintry weather—
And so the pretty dears are flown
On lightsome, careless wings together.
I smile: this little pearly-lined,

Woman! thoughtless, giddy creature,
Laughing, idle, flutt'ring thing:
Most uncertain work of nature,
Still, like fancy, on the wing.

Slave to ev'ry changing passion,
Loving, hating, in extreme:
Fond of ev'ry foolish fashion,
And, at best, a pleasing dream.

Lovely-trifle! dear-illusion!
Conquering-weakness! wished-for-pain!
Man's chief glory and confusion,
Of all vanity most vain!

Thus, deriding beauty's power,
Bevil called it all a cheat;
But in less than half an hour

Still abide the heaven-born three,
Faith, and Hope, and Charity!
Faith—to point out our heavenly goal,
Hope—an anchor to the soul:
Faith and Hope must pass away;
Charity endure for aye!

Hope must in possession die;
Faith—in blissful certainty:
These to gladden each were given;
Love, or Charity—for heaven!
For, in brighter realms above,
Charity survives—as Love.

Love to Him, the great I AM!
Love to Him, the atoning Lamb!
Love unto the Holy Ghost!
Love to all the heavenly host!

In the dim watches of the midmost night,
A ghost confronts him, standing by his bed,
A lonesome ghost who walks uncomforted,
Pale child of Memory and dead Delight,
No longer fair or pleasant in his sight.
With dusky hair upon her shoulders shed,
And cypress leaves for garland on her head,
As patient as the moonlight and as white,
She stands beside him, and puts forth her hand
To lead him backward into Love's lost Land—
Sad Land which shadows people, and where wait
Memory, her sire, and dead Delight, his mate—