poems about love

Thou hast so little share or part in me
And that, God knows, is why I love thee so!
Just as the great white waves that shoreward go
After their journey o'er the bitter sea
Love past all speech the emerald-shining lea
And the blue river-waves that towards them flow,—
And love beyond all human words the glow
Of pink cliff-thyme, and singing of the bee.

Thou art the river bringing to the deep
Thoughts of the flowers that by its banks are seen,
Woven in white amid the entangled green,—

The Summer fluttered south, and gathered all its flowers
From English woods and hills, and English lanes and bowers;
Soft leaves from every tree:
All these it gathered up, bright fragrant laughing legions,
And sought with footstep glad the southern stormless regions,—
But on a sudden paused and looked for thee.

Love saw sweet rest at last spread meadowlike before him
And felt the robe of death fall soft and dewlike o'er him
And knew what peace may be
Within the arms of death; but, as he sighed for pleasure

I think a task so sweet, and yet so strangely solemn,
Was never given to man.—Not with bright shaft and column
A temple high to raise:
No sculptured stone to blend with dreams of love and passion:
Not through sweet music-chords to wander in wild fashion:
Not by large song to win the Epic bays.

Only to sing thy face: this is the task Love giveth.
To sing the soul as well that in the deep eyes liveth:
To sing,—as best I can.
The task seems simple at first; yet, as the work proceedeth

I want thee, dear, to know—if my life's work is over
Nearly,—how proud I am that as thy songful lover
I entered these last lists.
Of all strong final work this I would choose the sureliest:
A true man sings the best, as ever too the pureliest,
With love's gold fetters round about his wrists.

There is not any work,—if this indeed be nearly
The end of all,—that I with vision keen, and clearly
Discerning all, would take
Sooner than this. To sing thy girlish beauty peerless
And then to pass,—content and satisfied and fearless,—

Was there a thought in God's heart when he died
Upon the Cross, that all might be in vain?
That after all his immemorial pain
The mocking world his love-suit might deride?
That she might nestle by another's side,—
That other feet love's temple might profane,
And other hearts of little worth might gain
The poor frail doubting faint heart of his Bride?—

Was this, and nothing else, the death-pang true,
The awful darkness darkening sea and land?
To give without reserve; although he knew

Lo! I would give my utter self to thee:—
As God was not content to give the rose
The every tint wherewith its bright heart glows,
Nor to bestow its whiteness on the sea,
Nor robe of summer verdure on the tree,
Nor on the mountain-steep its awful snows,
Nor on the night its fathomless repose
Wherethrough the stars' wings sweep eternally;—

As God was not content to give to these
Sweet gifts and many—to the flower its bloom,—
Its tender moss-wreath to the granite tomb,—
Its voice of silver to the singing breeze—

For this it is which is so sweet to me,
To suffer for thee:—When the last days came
And Byron with his eyes and heart aflame
Looked round the earth to see what cause might be
Worthy to die for, had he known but thee
His grim forlorn heart had not tarried long
Seeking an altar meet for love and song
And sacrifice heaven-sweet eternally.

To die for Greece! Yes, sweet: but sweeter far
To die for thee, if only so I might
Prove that my love for thee is winged with light
And passionately true, O one sweet star

Lift me by thy strange beauty evermore
And gift me nobly as with God's own grace
And give me holiest wings whereon to soar,
O face!

There never yet on loveliest hill or shore,
In old-world lands, or fair undreamed-of place,
Shone beauty such as thine for man to adore,
O face!

Love-gifts round Helen all men came to pour;
The strong world maddened for her white embrace:
Beauty past speech she had; yet thou hast more,
O face!

I never dreamed till half my life was o'er

Yes: “fairy-tales” you love.—But was there ever fairy
So full of love and life, and laughter light and airy,
And soft coquettish glee,
As thou art? All the tales the thought of man has fashioned
Held never yet a queen so graceful and impassioned:
The sweetest fairy never equalled thee.

Ah, dear old fairy-tales! I would that thou mightst love them
For ever, and with eyes quite tearless bend above them
For ever and evermore.
Life is no fairy-tale. There comes an hour for waking.
Yet when I gaze at thee, I see the soft waves breaking

It is so strange to think that of ten thousand faces
Thine have I loved and sung.—The summer wind embraces
The flowers of all the hills,
And yet it tarries, perhaps, with special love and yearning
Beside some hare-bell,—back, and ever backward turning,
While with deep love the wild wind's dark glance fills.

And God turns back at times from all the tropic blossoms
That with their warm white deep sweet-scented tropic bosoms
Lure down from heaven the sun
And concentrates his love on English fern, or daisy