poems about love

You are a yonger brother; but, God shield
That I should make you so, were you a child;
No; I will make you (as you are) a man
Of that desert as you both will and can
Teach yonger brothers to be generous;
And liue like those that grace not shame, their House.

Leave me, Fear! thy throbs are base,
Trembling for the body's sake.
Come, Love! who dost the spirit raise,
Because for others thou dost wake.
O it is beautiful in death
To hide the shame of human nature's end
In sweet & wary serving of a friend.
Love is true Glory's field, where the last breath
Expires in troops of honorable cares.
The wound of Fate the hero cannot feel
Smit with the heavenlier smart of social zeal.
It draws immortal day
In soot & ashes of our clay.
It is the virtue that enchants it.

In the old garden-path
Sorely care needing,
Fadeth a plant away:
“Love-lies-a-bleeding.”

In the old manor-house,
Listless, scarce heeding,
Fadeth a life away:
“Love-lies-a-bleeding.”

Fain would I change that note
To which fond love hath charm'd me
Long long to sing by rote,
Fancying that that harm'd me:
Yet when this thought doth come,

"Love is the perfect sum
Of all delight,'
I have no other choice
Either for pen or voice
To sing or write.

O Love, they wrong thee much
That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest pleasure is,
I do adore thee;
I know thee what thou art,

Still as of old I seem to sit
Where gods convene, with brows that shine;
The aroma still is exquisite;
Still glows the unearthly wine!

Yet Hebe, urging me to sup
With dimpled smile, no more I see …
But serving every golden cup,
Glides dark Mnemosyne!

Go now, Love,
Since staying's joy no longer!
Leave me to prove
If Time can make me stronger!
Nay, look not over thy shoulder so,
Pleading so sweetly to remain,
Where thou workest so much pain:
Look not behind thee, haste and go!

Ah, how should I
Deal to thee such hard measure,
As force thee fly,
Who broughtest heavenly pleasure?
Take pity, Love, and be kind
To him that could not refuse thee!
Is it not grief enough to lose thee?
Haste, O haste, nor look behind!

The love which is imprinted in my soul
With beauty's seal, and virtue fair disguised,
With inward cries puts up a bitter roll
Of huge complaints that now it is despised.

Thus, thus, the more I love, the wrong the more
Monstrous appears, long truth received late;
Wrong stirs remorsed grief, grief's deadly sore
Unkindness breeds, unkindness fost'reth hate.

But ah! the more I hate, the more I think
Whom I do hate; the more I think on him,
The more his matchless gifts do deeply sink
Into my breast, and loves renewed swim.

Those no longer
at a distance
from each other
suffer all the more,
when every slight,
every pain—
not a thing remains

There are those who love the sunny Southern ocean
With its olive-clad and myrtle-scented shore
And its waves that know no wrestling tides' commotion;
They will dream of its clear waters evermore:
For in Italy—perhaps—Love bent and blessed them,
Smiling angel-like from depths of bluest sky
So they love the land where perfect Love caressed them
More than all lands, and will love it till they die.

Others heard Love whisper through the English larches,
Heard in gentle spring his gentleness of tone;

Glad sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.

Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love.