poems about love

Some love endures a season;
It blossoms as the rose:
It blooms without a reason,
Without a thought it goes.
It comes through dreamland's portal;
It flashes on our eyes;
It makes some song immortal,
Then in an hour it dies.

Such love, though brief and hollow,
Wins worship as of old:
A thousand lovers follow
The form they may not hold.
“The fairest love is fleetest
And soonest lost in gloom;
Love's dawn,” they say, “is sweetest
When sunset brings its doom.”

If pleasure's white hand beckons,

First in fair youth I sang the love of earth:
The flowers of youth before me bright as fire
Flickered,—I cherished many a winged desire;
To eager thoughts the laughing days gave birth.
Love had not known chill sorrow, nor the dearth
Of strength:—he rested on a bed of flowers:
Sweet joy was his, and tuneable soft hours,—
Pleasure, and mutual toil; and silvery mirth.

But Love was stricken. Then the earth became
No more a bower of roses, but of snow,—
One vast deep charnel-house, one waste of woe,

When Love is kind,
Cheerful and free,
Love 's sure to find
Welcome from me.

But when Love brings
Heartache er pang,
Tears, and such things—
Love may go hang!

If Love can sigh
For one alone,
Well pleased am I
To be that one,

But should I see
Love given to rove
To two or three,
Then—good by Love!

Love must, in short,
Keep fond and true,
Thro' good report,
And evil too.

Else, here I swear,
Young Love may go,
For aught I care—

Behold a wonder here,
Love hath received his sight,
Which many hundred year
Hath not beheld the light.

Such beams infused be
By Cynthia in his eyes,
As first have made him see
And then have made him wise.

Love now no more will weep
For them that laugh the while;
Nor wake for them that sleep,
Nor sigh for them that smile.

So powerful is the beauty
That Love doth now behold,
As Love is turned to duty
That 's neither blind nor bold.

This Beauty shows her might
To be of double kind,

How do I love to sit and dream
Of that sweet passion, when I meet
The lady I must love for life!
The very thought makes my Soul beat
Its wings, as though it saw that light
Silver the rims of my black night.

I see her bring a crimson mouth
To open at a kiss, and close;
I see her bring her two fair cheeks,
That I may paint on each a rose;
I see her two hands, like doves white,
Fly into mine and hide from sight.

In fancy hear her soft, sweet voice;
My eager Soul, to catch her words,

I dreamed my love had set thy spirit free,
Enfranchised thee from Fate's o'ermastering power,
And girt thy being with a scatheless dower
Of rich and joyous immortality;
Of Love, I dreamed my soul had ransomed thee,
In thy lone, dread, incalculable hour
From those pale hands at which all mortals cower,
And conquered Death by Love, like Savitri.
When I awoke, alas, my love was vain
E'en to annul one throe of destined pain,
Or by one heart-beat to prolong thy breath;
O Love, alas, that love could not assuage

“O WILL you wear a nosegay
If I should pluck the flowers,
And will it be the dearer
In four-and-twenty hours?”
“Yes, I will wear your nosegay
A day upon my breast,
And then among my treasures
A life-time it will rest.”
They have an old enchantment
Of scents that never wane,
And posies are the sweetest
From Love Lane.

“O will you sing a song, love,
With magic words of mine,
Of prayer, and praise, and pleasure,
The olive and the vine?”
“Yes, I will sing your song, love,

Teach me, dearest, how to win thee
For the worth is not in me.
Let the blessed light within thee
Make me liker unto thee.
All my heart's unwearied loving
But a broken thing would be
Save that with most kind approving
Thy redeeming eye should see.

Wolde God that it were so
As I coude wishe betwixt us two!

The man that I loved altherbest
In al this contré, est other west,
To me he is a strange gest:
What wonder is't though I be wo?

When me were levest that he shold dwell,
. . . . . .
He wold nought say ones farewell
When time was come that he most go.

In places ofte when I him mete,
I dare nought speke, but forth I go;
With herte and eyes I him grete—
So trewe of love I know no mo.

As he is myn herte love,

Stir—
Shake off sleep.
Your eyes are the soul of clear waters—
Pigeons
In a city street.

Suns now dead
Have tucked away of their gold for your hair:
My buried mouth still tastes their fires.

A tender god built your breasts—
Apples of desire;
Their whiteness slakes the throat;
Their form soothes like honey.

Wake up!
Or the song-bird in my heart
Will peck open the shell of your dreams.
. . . . . . . . . .
Sleep, my own,
Soaring over rivers of fire.
Sleep, my own,