poems about love

Approach with reverence. There are those within
Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove,
From them flow all the decencies of life;
Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self
Admired, not loved: and those on whom they smile,
Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful,
Shine forth with double lustre.

Why is it thus with me, false Love,
Why is it thus with me?
Mine enemies might so have dealt;
I fear'd it not of thee!

Thou wast the thought of all my thoughts,
Nor other hope had I:
My life was laid upon thy love;
Then how could'st let me die?

The flower is loyal to the bud,
The greenwood to the spring,
The soldier to his banner bright,
The noble to his king:

The bee is constant to the hive,
The ringdove to the tree,
The martin to the cottage-eaves:
Thou only not to me.

'Tis said that Love when all is done
Is but “Two Hearts That Beat As One,”—
Which I deny, for I have found
When Love to visit me comes round
The moment he comes through the door
He makes my heart beat like ten score,
And even more!

If I were teaching Love at school,
And to define it I were tasked,
I'd say
That 'tis an element, by no means cool,
That comes our way,
Both night and day,
Unsought, unasked,
And as a rule
Makes Man a Hero or a Fool,
And best of all it is so rich
He cares not which!

“Love me, sweet girl! thy love is all I ask!”
“Love thee?” she laughing cries; “I love thee not!”
“Why, then, I'll cease to love thee on the spot,
Since loving thee is such a thankless task!”

The gift is small,
The love is all.

It was a gallant troubadour,
A child of sword and song,
That loved a gentle paramour,
And loved her leal and long;
He woo'd her as a knight should woo,
And laying lance in rest,
In listed fields, her colours flew
O'er many a haughty crest.
He loved her as a bard should do,
And taking harp in hand,
In sweetest lays, that lady's praise
He poured o'er many a land:
But all in vain,
His noblest strain
Awoke no kind return;
That lady proud
Smiled on the crowd,
But his true love did spurn.

Love on my heart from heaven fell,
Soft as the dew on flowers of spring,
Sweet as the hidden drops that swell
Their honey-throated chalicing.

Now never from him do I part,
Hosanna evermore I cry:
I taste his savour in my heart,
And bid all praise him as do I.

Without him noughtsoever is,
Nor was afore, nor e'er shall be:
Nor any other joy than his
Wish I for mine to comfort me.

The burning fire shakes in the night,
On high her silver candles gleam,
With far-flung arms enflamed with light,
The trees are lost in dream.

Come in thy beauty! 'tis my love,
Lost in far-wandering desire,
Hath in the darkling deep above
Set stars and kindled fire.

Sweet and lovely, dimly in my dream,
a warbling oriole, west of my emerald tree…
I rise, the sun is glowing red,
and he has moved to sing in another tree.

Past and
gone now
is the time I awaited,
leaving me
clinging—
anxious for wind
from the pines,
like dewdrops
at break of day.