poems about love

Look from thy lattice, love—
Listen to me!
The cool, balmy breeze
Is abroad on the sea!
The moon, like a queen,
Roams her realms above,
And naught is awake
But the spirit of love.
Ere morn's golden light
Tips the hills with its ray,
Away o'er the waters—
Away and away!
Then look from thy lattice, love—
Listen to me.
While the moon lights the sky,
And the breeze curls the sea!
Look from thy lattice, love—
Listen to me!
In the voyage of life,
Love our pilot will be!

The fisher's clothes, though cheap, withstand
The drenching they receive;
But see! my floods of tears have blurred
The colours of my sleeve,
As for thy love I grieve.

I just give you what I've got, dear comrades:
The little things here and there of no consequence born of my love:
The words of my heart addressing themselves to you: the plain simple words of my loyal faith:
I have nothing else to give, but I give you that wholly, without asking any questions:
Coming to you with joy, visiting you with confidence, yet sending no boisterous couriers ahead to promise you anything:
You, all of you, to whom I belong: you, all of you, who belong to me: the somebodies, the nobodies:

Those tender ties are sundered now,—
This heart is doomed to die;
Vain is the oft-repeated vow,
And vain the pensive sigh;
The morning breaks so lone and sad
Upon my wakeful eye,
And I have none to make me glad
Beneath the sunlit sky.

O! tell me where sweet comfort flows,
And where the cheering beams?
Sweet solace for these latent woes,
And living crystal streams?
And where is love, unchanging love,
Love that can never die?
Not on this earth; 'tis formed above,
In fairer climes on high!

Yes, life has curious ways, and I to you
Am little more than anyone might be.
But I cannot lose you any more, my love.

I cannot see you any more, my love,
For if I do not see you I have eyes
But if I see you I have none at all.

I cannot love you any more, my love,
For if I do not love you I have peace
But if I love you I have none at all.

It was a cruel thing when you were born,
For I had always pain of missing you
But finding you at last, that was the pain.

Love is the soothing voice of gods
To which men ever list.
Love is the ease of soul's travail
And sorrow's alchemist.

When we went out to take the air,
My dearie love, my heart's delight
Had crimson poppies in her hair,
But O, her cheeks were white.

We watched the sunset doff his crown,
The silver moon shine overhead;
Then I looked up, and she looked down,
And ne'er a word we said.

And then it seemed a thousand years;
And then I said, “It's fair and mild,”
And looking down I saw my dear's
Blue eyes, and O, they smiled.

We sat as still as still could be
And smiled till love was clean confessed,

Autumn is weary, halt, and old;
Ah, but she owns the song of joy!
Her colours fade, her woods are cold.
Her singing-bird's a boy, a boy.

In lovely Spring the birds were bent
On nests, on use, on love, forsooth!
Grown-up were they. This boy's content,
For his is liberty, his is youth.

The musical stripling sings for play
Taking no thought, and virgin-glad.
For duty sang those mates in May.
This singing-bird's a lad, a lad.

What fault could be so heinous,
What word give Love annoyance,
That wrath should over-reign us
And wrest away Love's joyance?

Though fortune over-shine us,
Though fate forego her promise,
What chance can unentwine us,
Or take Love's bounty from us?

We shall be wise, and careful
To turn from Folly's boothful;
Our love will make us prayerful,
And prayer will make us truthful.

For truth is Love's ambition,
And you and I have weighed it;
And prayer is Love's petition
And you and I have made it.

1. At a gay reception given in a mansion grand and old, A
young man met the girl he used to know;. . . . . And
once again the story of his honest love he told, The
love he'd cherished since long years ago. . . . . But she
sighed and sadly murmur'd that her childhood love was past, That
soon another man she was to wed. . . . . The
lover knew the other man already had a wife. He
bade farewell, but as he went, he said: . . . . .
2. The maiden did not understand the fable that he told, A
church was soon arrayed in holy state,. . . . .A