poems about love

O Love, Love, Love!
Whether it rain or shine,
Whether the clouds frown or the sky is clear,
Whether the thunder fill the air with fear,
Whether the winter rage or peace is here,
If only thou art near,
Then are all days divine.

O Love, Love, Love!
Where thou art not, the place
Is sad to me as death. It would be cold
In heaven without thee, if I might not hold
Thy hand in mine, if I might not behold
The beauty manifold,
The wonder of thy face.

She who mocked at my despair,
Tossed the ringlets of her hair,
See her now that beauty's fled,
All her pride discomfited.

Hanging breast, and sunken eye,
Lips that babble foolishly,
Drooping eyebrows, all confess
Age and wrinkled ugliness.

Love a righteous vengeance claims
On the heads of haughty dames,
Gray hairs not to be denied
Are his nemesis for pride.

That farewell voice of love is never heard again
Yet I remember it and think on it with pain
I see the place she spoke when passing by
The flowers were blooming as her form drew nigh
That voice is gone with every pleasing tone
Loved but one moment and the next alone
Farewell the winds repeated as she went
Walking in silence through the grassy bent
The wild flowers they ne'er look'd so sweet before
Bowed in far[e] wells to her they'll see no more
In this same spot the wild flowers bloom the same

“D EAR as remembered kisses after death”—
We read and pause, toying the pliant page
With absent fingers while we question slow,
By whom remembered? Not by those that live,
And love again, and wed, and know fresh joys,
Forgetting the pale past. Ah, no! for them,
The sudden stirring of such long-whelmed thought
Means shock and pain, and swift reburial.
But it may be, that with the dreaming dead,
Who sank away quick piercèd by despair,
It may be that their stillness is aglow
Through soft recalling of each loved caress;

An ancient tome came to my hands:
A tale of love in other lands:
Writ by a Master so divine,
The Love seems ever mine and thine.
The volume opened at the place
That sings of sweet Francesca's grace:
How reading of Fair Guinevere
And Launcelot that long gone year,
Her eyes into her lover's fell
And—there was nothing more to tell.
That day they op'ed that book no more:
Thenceforth they read a deeper lore.

Beneath the passage so divine,
Some woman's hand had traced a line,
And reverently upon the spot

Light as love's smile the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving,
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel gayly leaping.

I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery, ere
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes

None ever was in love with me but grief.
—She wooed me from the day that I was born;
She stole my playthings first, the jealous thief,
—And left me there forlorn.

The birds that in my garden would have sung,
—She scared away with her unending moan;
She slew my lovers too when I was young,
—And left me there alone.

Grief, I have cursed thee often—now at last
—To hate thy name I am no longer free;
Caught in thy bony arms and prisoned fast,
—I love no love but thee.

‘Twas in the month of August, or the middle of July,
One evening I went walking, a fair maiden I did spy;
She was mournin' for her true love, who was in Amerikee,
Agh, divil a word I said to her, and she said the same to me!

Oh eies, leave of your weepinge,
Loue hath the thoughtes in keepinge
That maie content yee;
Let not this misconceivinge
Where comfortes are receyving
Causles torment yee

Clowdes threaten but a showre
Hope hath his happie howre
Thoughe longe in lastinge:
Time nedes must be attended
Loue must not be offended
With to muche hastinge

Yitt oh the painefull pleasure,
Wher loue attendes the leizure
Of loves wretehednes;
Where hope is but illusion
And feare but a confusion
Of loues happines.

Ye cats at midnight spit love at each other,
Who best feel the pangs of a passionate lover,
I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur,
If the business of Love be no more than to purr.
Old Lady Grimalkin with her gooseberry eyes,
Knew something when a kitten, for why she is wise;
You find by experience, the love-fit's soon o'er,
Puss! Puss! lasts not long, but turns to Cat-whore!
Men ride many miles,
Cats tread many tiles,
Both hazard their necks in the fray;
Only cats, when they fall
From a house or a wall,