poems about love

The Andalusian merchant, that returns
Laden with cochineal and china dishes,
Reports in Spain how strangely Fogo burns
Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes:
These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.

Two strong streams of a land must run
Together surely as the sun
Succeeds the moon. Who shall gainsay
The gods that reign, that wisely reign?
Love is, love was, shall be again.
Like death, inevitable it is;
Perchance, like death, the dawn of bliss.
Let us, then, love the perfect day,
The twelve o'clock of life, and stop
The two hands pointing to the top,
And hold them tightly while we may.

Ah ! well might he upon Christ's bosom leaning
The chosen few above,
Declare the truth, with zeal not overweening,
That God, our God, is love.

Our God is love: his smile clothes earth in beauty,
And robes it with delight;
And every heart that heeds the call of duty
That love shall clothe in white.

Fair as the morning is the soul that loveth
All things below, above,
Which he the wise and holy One, approveth,
Growing like him in love.

Our God is love, when fair and fragrant flowers
Our daily pathway strew,

——I LOVED your face.
Whether I loved you once I do not know;
Whether I found below
——The signs of grace.

——I would rejoice
To hear you speak, as at a heavenly token.
I know not what was spoken.
——I loved your voice.

Saki, for God's love, come and fill my glass;
Wine for a breaking heart, O, Saki, bring!
For this strange love which seemed at first, alas!
So simple and so innocent a thing,
How difficult, how difficult it is!
Because the night-wind kissed the scented curl
On the white brow of a capricious girl,
And, passing, gave me half the stolen kiss,
Who would have thought one's heart could bleed and break
For such a very little thing as this?
Wine, Saki, wine—red wine, for pity's sake!

O Saki, would to God that I might die!

O know to end, as to begin;
A minute's loss in love is sin.
These homours will the night outwear
In their own pastimes here;
You do our rites much wrong
In seeking to prolong
These outward pleasures:
The night hath other treasures
Than these, though long concealed,
Ere day to be revealed.
Then know to end, as to begin;
A minute's loss in Love is sin.
(from Masque of Hymen)

My love was warm; for that I crossed
The mountains and the sea,
Nor counted that endeavour lost
That gave my love to me.

If that indeed were love at all
As still, my love, I trow,
By what dear name am I to call
The bond that holds me now?

What but the love of God could have softened
And made forgiving the people of Spoon River
Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt
And murdered him beside?
Oh, loving hearts that took me in again
When I returned from fourteen years in prison!
Oh, helping hands that in the church received me
And heard with tears my penitent confession,
Who took the sacrament of bread and wine!
Repent, ye living ones, and rest with Jesus.

The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the trouble of her labouring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,

My longings unbearable,
I went to see my love—
the winter night's river wind
so cold the plovers cried