poems about love

If I have spoken
Of my love, it is to the slow stream
That hearkens when I lean
Above it; if I have spoken
Of my love, it is to the wind
That laughs and whispers in the leaves;
If I have spoken of my love, it is to the bird
That passes singing
With the wind;
If I have spoken,
The echo heard.

If I have loved with a great love,
In sad or joyous wise,
It was your eyes;
If I have loved with a great love,
It was your mouth so grave and sweet,
It was your mouth;
If I have loved with a great love,

Now, some there are who whisper love,
And some there are who shout it;
And there are others—see above—
Who merely talk about it.

It's well enough fine words to spill,
Whate'er the lady's station;
But something more is asked for, Bill,
Than highflown conversation.

Young Romeo could talk all day;
Than his no words are warmer.
But when it came to loving—say,
That boy was some performer!

Though ladies fair, of every sort,
Admire a chaste expression,
Don't talk yourself clear out of court,

If love's a folly, what am I,
Who love beyond expression?
If 'tis a crime to be in love,
How great is my transgression!

Then cruel charmer, O! be kind,
And pass my final sentence,
For I am weary of my chains,
And languish for repentance.

When you and I are asleep, my love,
Under the carven stone;
Who will there be left to weep, my love,
Of all that we have known?
But the lark will sing as clear and free,
As she springs from her nest by the alder-tree,
And the robin carol his hearts desire,
Above us in the red-rose brier.

Though your voice is low and weak, my dear,
There is love-light in your eye!
Though the roses fade from your cheek, my dear,
Love's roses never die!
Buts it's oh, for the long and lasting sleep,

Here lies who lov'd his glass, and sung, and play'd:
The Muse with Love and Fancy he caress'd;
Was in the lap of Joy and Beauty laid,
By Wit enliven'd, and with feelings blest:
Adversity, with cheerful spirit brav'd—
Nor felt a moment's pain unless to find,
That many an hour his arm no friend had sav'd,
His love no mistress in its chains could bind.

If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes,
First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies:
Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne,
Her Right Divine is given by Love alone.

What would the rose with all her pride be worth,
Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?
Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown,
Wait but that light which comes from Love alone.

Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear,
Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year:

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove,
Is fair—but oh, how fair,
If Pity's hand had stolen from Love
One leaf to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,
Did gems for dewdrops fall,
One faded leaf where Love had sighed
Were sweetly worth them all.

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove
Our emblem well may be;
Its bloom is yours, but hopeless Love
Must keep its tears for me.

Upon a lady my love is lente,
Withoutene change of any chere—
That is lovely and continent
And most at my desire.

This lady is in my herte pight;
Her to love I have gret haste.
With all my power and my might
To her I make mine herte stedfast.

Therfor will I non other spouse
Ner none other loves, for to take;
But only to her I make my vowes,
And all other to forsake.

This lady is gentill and meke,
Moder she is and well of all;
She is never for to seke,
Nother too grete ner too small.

All other love is like the mone
That wext and wanet as flowre in plein,
As flowre that fairet and fawet sone,
As day that scowret and endet in rein.

All other love bigint by blisse,
In wep and wo mak his ending;
No love ther nis that our alle lisse,
Bot what areste in hevene king,

Whos love is … and ever grene,
And ever full withoute waning;
His love sweteth withoute tene,
His love is endless and aring.

All other love I flo for thee;
Tell me, tell me, where thou list?
“In Marye milde and free

Why dost thou sing the threadbare songs of others?
Make thine own classics, of whatever tune.
Write future lullabies that happy mothers
Above abundant breasts may fondly croon.

Love through the ages found its richest vintage
In verse that voiced the dumbness of the throng;
Add to that wealth thy coins of golden mintage.
All lovers that shall be await thy song.

Or, if too far thy loving to remember,
Thou mayst the Laureate of Friendship be,
Find in the ash of Age some welcome ember
And light a passion Love might envy thee.