poems about love

Maurice, weep not, I am not here under this pine tree.
The balmy air of spring whispers through the sweet grass,
The stars sparkle, the whippoorwill calls,
But thou grievest, while my soul lies rapturous
In the blest Nirvana of eternal light!
Go to the good heart that is my husband
Who broods upon what he calls our guilty love:—
Tell him that my love for you, no less than my love for him
Wrought out my destiny—that through the flesh
I won spirit, and through spirit, peace.
There is no marriage in heaven
But there is love.

I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why?
My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my
funeral,
And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely able
To hold to the railing of the new life
When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree
At the grave,

Where is my boy, my boy
In what far part of the world?
The boy I loved best of all in the school?—
I, the teacher, the old maid, the virgin heart,
Who made them all my children.
Did I know my boy aright,
Thinking of him as a spirit aflame,
Active, ever aspiring?
Oh, boy, boy, for whom I prayed and prayed
In many a watchful hour at night,
Do you remember the letter I wrote you
Of the beautiful love of Christ?
And whether you ever took it or not,
My, boy, wherever you are,
Work for your soul's sake,

Henry got me with child,
Knowing that I could not bring forth life
Without losing my own.
In my youth therefore I entered the portals of dust.
Traveler, it is believed in the village where I lived
That Henry loved me with a husband's love
But I proclaim from the dust
That he slew me to gratify his hatred.

Good my lord,
You have begot me, bred me, loved me. I
Return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and most honor you.
Why have my sisters husbands if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.
Sure I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all. I, i

All that was mine—I have loved it, and loved it both true and well.
Quick to its call I uprose, as the heart to the sacring-bell.
Never so long ago, nor aught that I loved as a child,
And lost, but I love it still and would seek it unreconciled.
Never so far past by, that broken its image appears,
Blent with dissolving visions or dim in the rush of the years!
Never so cast away, flung out on the world's rough wake,
But only the more would I love it—at need would go down for its sake.

As Love is cause of joy,
So Love procureth care;
As Love doth end annoy,
So Love doth cause despair;
But yet I oft heard say,
And wise men like did give,
That no one at this day
Without a love can live.
And think you I will Love defy?
No, no! I love until I die.

Love knits the sacred knot,
Love heart and hand doth bind;
Love will not shrink one jot,
But Love doth keep his kind;
Love maketh friends of foes,
Love stays the commonwealth;
Love doth exile all woes
That would impair our health:

If this be love, to draw a weary breath,
To paint on floods till the shore cry to th'air;
With downward looks, still reading on the earth
The sad memorials of my love's despair:
If this be love, to war against my soul,
Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve,
The never-resting stone of care to roll,
Still to complain my griefs whilst none relieve:

If this be love, to clothe me with dark thoughts,
Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart;
My pleasures horror, music tragic notes,
Tears in mine eyes and sorrow at my heart.

How still she was! She only knew
His love. She saw no life beyond.
She loved with love that only lives
Outside itself and selfishness,—
A love that glows in its excess;
A love that melts pure gold, and gives
Thenceforth to all who come to woo
No coins but this face stamped thereon,—
Ay, this one image stamped upon
Pure gold, with some dim date long gone.

It was frosty winter-season,
And fair Flora's wealth was geason.
Meads that erst with green were spread,
With choice flowers diaper'd,
Had tawny veils; cold had scanted
What the springs and nature planted.
Leafless boughs there might you see,
All except fair Daphne's tree;
On their twigs no birds perch'd,
Warmer coverts now they search'd;
And by nature's secret reason.
Fram'd their voices to the season,
With their feeble tunes bewraying,
How they griev'd the spring's decaying.
Frosty winter thus had gloom'd