poems about love

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois bounds,
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds;
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air,
And where the Lauwine's' peal is heard—Hunter! thy heart is there!

I know thou lov'st me well, dear friend! but better, better far,
Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war;
In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine,
And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

With thy true love I have more wealth
Than Charon's piled-up bank doth hold;
Where he makes kings lay down their crowns
And lifelong misers leave their gold.

Without thy love I've no more wealth
Than seen upon that other shore;
That cold, bare bank he rows them to—
Those kings and misers made so poor.

& what is Love the sweetest of all pains
Yet teazing more then madness to the mind
It wants no setoffs garniture or gains
Better acceptance in the heart to find
On lily breasts & rosey mouths love binds
Its image which no power on earth can free
Though called inconstant as the shifting winds
Tis Truth on earth as heaven itself can be
I've felt it ever since I loved Haidee.

Haidee the lovliest of all thats loved
The venus of young life the poets dreams
A vision of the mind by all approved

Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light,
Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest,
So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright—
Solace of broken hearts, the mansion of the bless'd!

Tell me, oh! tell me—shall I meet again
The long lost object of my only love!
—This hope but mine, death were release from pain;
Angel of mercy! haste, and waft my soul above!

Lenten is come with love to toune
With blossom and with briddés roune?
That all this bliss bringeth.
Dayés eyes in the dales
Notés sweet of nightingales
Each fowl song singeth.
The threstlecock him threateth oo,
Away is now their winter woe
When woodruff newly springeth,
This fowles singeth ferly fele
They look no more on Winter weal
And all the woodé ringeth.

The rose prepareth her array,
The leaves on the tender spray
Waxen all with will.
The moon sends forth her sheen,
The lily's lovesome to be seen,

O love, when thou dost come into my heart,
(E'en though it be but short and changeful love,)
A feeling of good-will toward all who move
Seems of thy joy an ever-present part
Therefore my thought hath often pictured thee
As some bright angel, who dost see how hard
It is for men to love pure and unmarred,
To climb the heights their aspirations see,
And so dost come down with thy glorious lamp
And set it in our hearts, when straight-way flee
All evil impulses we could not tramp
Beneath our feet while yet we knew not thee

Once on a time, when Love was young,
While light, as his own dart, he flew;
Where-e'er a gentle lay was sung,
Ev'n there would Love be singing too.

Where-e'er a maiden sighed, he'd sigh,
Where-e'er she smiled, he'd smile as gay,
Where-e'er she wept, he flew to dry
With cherub-lips her tears away.

But now, alas! that Love is old,
Beauty may e'en lay down her lute,
His wings are stiff, his heart is cold,
He will not come and warble to't.

Or like a tottering tiny sire,

The sorrow of true love is a great sorrow
And true love parting blackens a bright morrow:
Yet almost they equal joys, since their despair
Is but hope blinded by its tears, and clear
Above the storm the heavens wait to be seen.
But greater sorrow from less love has been
That can mistake lack of despair for hope
And knows not tempest and the perfect scope
Of summer, but a frozen drizzle perpetual
Of drops that from remorse and pity fall
And cannot ever shine in the sun or thaw,
Removed eternally from the sun's law.

O SAY , my flattering heart,
Loves she like me?
Is her's thy counterpart,
Throbs it like thee?
Does she remember yet
The spot where first we met,
Which I shall ne'er forget,
Loves she like me?

Soft echoes still repeat
“Loves she like me?”
When on that mossy seat,
Beneath the tree,
I wake my amorous lay
While lambkins round me play,
And whispering zephyrs say,
Loves she like me?

On her I think by day,
Loves she like me?
With her in dreams I stray
O'er mead and lea.

Madam,
I cannot but congratulate
The happy Omen of your last Nights fate;
For those that wou'd live undisturb'd and free
Must never put on Hymens Livery.
Perhaps the Outside seems to promise fair
but the Liveing only Greive and anxious Care.
But once you let that Gordion Knot be ty'd
That turns the name of Virgin into Bride,
Your life's best Scene, in that fond Act forego
And run into a Labyrinth of Wo:
Whose Strange Meanders you may search about,
But never find the Clue to lead you out.