poems about love

When shadows o'er the landscape creep,
And twinkling stars pale vigils keep;
When flower-cups all with dew-drops gleam,
And moonshine floweth like a stream;
Then is the hour
That hearts which love no longer dream,—
Then is the hour
That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the lake,
And amorous leaves sweet music wake;
When slumber steals o'er every eye,
And Dian's self shines drowsily;
Then is the hour
That hearts which love with rapture sigh,—
Then is the hour

In secret Yearning for thy Preservation,
Endeared Friend, I send the Salutation
Of Love unfeign'd, and heartily desire
Its pure Refining Flame may ne'er expire,
Or be extinguish'd: For 'twas said of old,
Iniquities abound, when Love grows cold.
Now, though thy silent Pen doth testifie,
There's some (yet latent) cause of Jealousie:
I'll not my Rival envy, if it be
One worthy to be entertain'd by thee,
Without Detraction from that innate Worth,
Whereto (I hope) thou art by second Birth
Entituled. But can Affairs so crow'd,

Upon the lonely moorland,
Ah, what a weary day!
The stream was loud and turbid,
The sombre sky was grey;
And though the gorse was golden,
My love was far away.

Upon the lonely moorland,
Ah, what a weary day!
The town was grey below me,
Beyond, the sea was grey;
And though the gorse was golden,
My love was far away.

Over the lonely moorland
There stole at last a ray
Of sunlight through the rifting
Of sombre clouds and grey;
Though sun and gorse were golden,
My love was far away.

The breezy morning breath'd perfume.
The wakening flow'rs unveil'd their bloom,
Up with the sun, from short repose,
Gay Health and lusty Labour rose;
The milk-maid caroll'd at her pail,
And shepherds whistled o'er the dale,
When Love, who led a rural life,
Remote from bustle, state, and strife,
Forth from his thatch'd-roof cottage stray'd,
And stroll'd along the dewy glade.
A nymph, who lightly tripp'd it by,
To quick attention turn'd his eye;
He mark'd the gesture of the fair,
Her self-sufficient grace and air,

Full of the fever of a hopeless love,
My heart's wild worship still is all thine own:
Unchanged—unchangeable—though doomed to move
O'er life's dim waste alone.

Ah! all too deep for words of mortal breath,
My lonely love is one perpetual smart;
Fain would I woo the quiet sleep of death
For this unquiet heart!

'Tis death to see thee in thy joyousness—
To meet thine eye, the smile upon thy lips,
And feel this world a blighted wilderness,
And life a vast eclipse!

So sad and weary! I would ask no more

My heart! my pulse! my flame!
O the gloom, O the pain!
He has no wish to save me
Who will not come again.

Love! Love! Love!
The fair cheek, the dark hair,
The promise forgotten;
'Twill go with me there.

False! false! false!
O, youth is false for ever:
He loves far more than living me—
The lifeless heather.

The hunting field,
The greenwood tree,
The trout, the running deer, he loves,
Far more than me.

He loves—loves—loves
To stalk the frightened doe;

Dear, we have sat with Beauty, you and I,
And trembled with a thought of viewless things,
So fleet, so frail, so seeming-sure to die,
Yet strong with wonder of ethereal wings;

Have sat in trance to Loveliness, with Love
Beside us, in a precious pact of three:
Love, loveliness and you—it sounds above
All earthly discords, like a song to me!


And though we transiently are driven apart,
And absence is an ache and an alloy;
We carry that shy music in our heart,
And we return to find but deeper joy.

Go, idle boy, I quit thy power,
Thy couch of many a thorn and flower,
Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,
Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;
The feign'd surprise, the roguish leer,
The tender smile, the thrilling tear,
Have now no pangs—no joys for me,
So, fare thee well, for I am free!
Then flutter hence on wanton wing,
Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,
Or take thy beverage from the rose,
Or on Louisa's breast repose,
I wish thee well for pleasures past,
Yet bless the hour I'm free at last!

Time was when Love's dear ways I used to know—
That time's at end, and Love has passed me by:
Be merciful, dear God, and let me die—
How can I lift my head from this last blow?

I cannot bear this life whence Faith has fled—
This jostling world in which I walk alone—
Where through long, lonesome nights old memories moan,
With human voices, that the dead is dead.

I cannot bear to meet the day's cold eyes—
The lonesome nights are bitter with my tears—
Shuddering I face the empty hideous years,

The Man, whose lady-love is virgin Truth,
Must woo a lady that is hard to win:
She smiles not on the wild and wordy din
Of all-confiding, all-protesting Youth;
The Sceptic's apathy; the garb uncouth,
And Cynic sneer of o'er-experienced Sin,
The Serpent, writhing in its worn-out skin,
Craving again to flesh its sated tooth,
She quite abhors. She is not fond, nor coy—
Self-seeking love, and self-appraising scorn,
She knows not. She hath utterly forsworn,
Her worldly dower of wealth, and pride, and joy—