poems about love

Daisies, does he love me?
Daisies, tell me true.
“Loves me does not love me”
That will never do!
Why, you know, you daisies,
Whatever you may say,
He stole that knot of riband
I wore the other day.

Daisies, one more trial;
Let your petals fall.
“Loves me does not love me
Loves me,” after all!
Thank you, darling daisies,
And if it ends that way
I'll wear you in a garland
Upon my wedding day.

Love should be pure and passionate, a thing
Of flame and flowers frail, elusive, bright,
A sudden splendour, a most proud delight,
Tender as flowers by day,
And fierce as fire by night,
A singing wonder ever on the wing,
A magical, mad mood too sweet to stay.

Love is an inspiration which reveals
The grace of the beloved to our glad eyes,
So we who worship vehemently are wise,
Since shy, strange beauty slips
For us her dark disguise;
And softly from her secret hiding steals,

One's own lips are his heart's best enemies,
And their report True Love but faintly heeds:
O Friend, forget both words and silences,
And learn to read great love in little deeds!

The blooming flowers, the galaxies of space,
Lie pictured in a sheeny drop of even;
And globed in one round word, on lips of grace,
Shine out the best of earth and all of heaven.

1. There is no name so sweet on earth, No name so sweet in heaven,
The name before his wondrous birth, To Christ the Saviour given.
For there's no word ears ever heard So dear, so sweet as Jesus.
We love to sing around our King, And hail him blessed Jesus.

2. And when he hung upon the tree,
They wrote this name above him,
That all might see the reason we
For evermore must love him.

3. So now, upon his Father's throne,
Almighty to release us
From sin and pains, he ever reigns,
The Prince and Saviour Jesus.

When I am old, and my good days are o'er,
And life and love are less than dreams of dreams,
And my soul sits within the burnt-out core
Of its own ghost, and God Himself but seems:

When, child, you speak, and I know not your name,
And look up dazed, and wonder who you are,
And care no longer if you praise or blame,
Or whether 'twixt us two 'tis peace or war:

Have patience with the unremembering eyes,
Which once their love-thirst from your own did slake;
Think how this heart once thought it Paradise

They bad farewell; but neither spoke of love.
The railway bore him off with rapid pace,
He gazed awhile on Edith's garden grove,
Till alien woodlands overlapp'd the place—
Alas! he cried, how mutely did we part!
I fear'd to test the truth I seem'd to see
Oh! that the love dream in her timid heart
Had sigh'd itself awake, and called for me!
I could have answer'd with a ready mouth,
And told a sweeter dream; but each forebore.
He saw the hedgerows fleeting to the north
On either side, whilst he look'd sadly forth:

Thy ring!—ah! that is sad in human life,
That friends forget;—not even part in strife,
Nor shun each other with suspicious eye,
But grudge such little pains as to deny
The fairest flower of life what every weed,
The vilest, sickens when compelled to need.
They see how time cuts deeper year by year,
When soul to soul grows not more near and dear;
Already Love's ripe sheaves their gold display,
And yet they let love starve and pine away;
Heedless they see the bright links fall apart;
And thus does heart forget to cherish heart;

When I would sing of crooked streams and fields,
On, on from me they stretch too far and wide,
And at their look my song all powerless yields,
And down the river bears me with its tide;
Amid the fields I am a child again,
The spots that then I loved I love the more,
My fingers drop the strangely-scrawling pen,
And I remember nought but nature's lore;
I plunge me in the river's cooling wave,
Or on the embroidered bank admiring lean,
Now some endangered insect life to save,
Now watch the pictured flowers and grasses green;

Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever there
Dwelt beauty in so poor a face as this;
Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss?
I will not bind fresh roses in my hair,
To shame a cheek at best but little fair,--
Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn,--
I will not seek for blossoms anywhere,
Except such common flowers as blow with corn.
Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain?
The longing of a heart pent up forlorn,
A silent heart whose silence loves and longs;
The silence of a heart which sang its songs