poems about love

Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes
To lovers' plaints with heart-sore throbs immixt,
Whenas my dear this way her pleasure takes,
Tell her with tears how firm my love is fixt;
And, Philomel, report my timorous fears,
And, Echo, sound my heigh-ho's in her ears.
But if she asks if I for love will die,
Tell her, Good faith, good faith, good faith—not I!

One pale November day
—Flying Summer paused,
They say:
—And growing bolder,
—O'er rosy shoulder
———Threw her lover such a glance
———That Autumn's heart began to dance.
————(O happy lover!)

A leafless peach-tree bold
—Thought for him she smiled,
I'm told;
—And, stirred by love,
—His sleeping sap did move,
Decking each naked branch with green
To show her that her look was seen!
(Alas, poor lover!)

But Summer, laughing fled,
—Nor knew he loved her!
———'Tis said
——The peach-tree sighed,

This moonlight makes
The lovely lovelier
Than ever before lakes
And meadows were.

And yet they are not,
Though this their hour is, more
Lovely than things that were not
Lovely before.

Nothing on earth,
And in the heavens no star,
For pure brightness is worth
More than that jar,

For wasps meant, now
A star—long may it swing
From the dead apple-bough,
So glistening.

O, YOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,
Girl of my choice, Maureen!
Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies,
Maureen?

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,
White rose of the West, Maureen:
For it's pale you are, and the fear that's on you is over me too,
Maureen!

Sure it's one complaint that's on us, asthore, this day,
Bride of my dreams, Maureen:
The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say,
Maureen!

O Love , whose patient pilgrim feet
Life's longest path have trod;
Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet
The dearer love of God;
The sacred myrtle wreathes again
Thine altar, as of old;
And what was green with summer then,
Is mellowed now to gold.

Not now, as then, the future's face
Is flushed with fancy's light;
But memory, with a milder grace,
Shall rule the feast to-night.
Blest was the sun of joy that shone,
Nor less the blinding shower;
The bud of fifty years agone
Is love's perfected flower.

Love, You have struck me straight, my Lord!
Past innocence, past guilt,
I carry in my soul the sword
You buried to the hilt.

And though to eyes in terrible pain
Heaven and earth may reel,
For fear You may not strike again
I will not draw the steel.

The snow is snowing,
The wind is blowing,
But I can weather the storm.
What do I care how much it may storm?
I've got my love to keep me warm.
I can't remember
A worse December,
Just watch those icicles form.
What do I care if icicles form?
I've got my love to keep me warm.
Off with my overcoat,
Off with my glove,
I need no overcoat,
I'm burning with love.
My heart's on fire,
The flame grows higher,
So I will weather the storm.
What do I care how much it may storm?
I've got my love to keep me warm.

Lend me thy fillet, Love!
I would no longer see:
Cover mine eyelids close awhile,
And make me blind like thee.

Then might I pass her sunny face,
And know not it was fair;
Then might I hear her voice, nor guess
Her starry eyes were there.

Ah! Banished so from stars and sun—
Why need it be my fate?
If only she might dream me good
And wise, and be my mate!

Lend her thy fillet, Love!
Let her no longer see:
If there is hope for me at all,
She must be blind like thee.

Last night, in snowy gown and glove,
—I saw you watch the play
Where each mock hero won his love
—In the old unlifelike way.

(And, oh, were life their little scene
—Where love so smoothly ran,
How different, Dear, this world had been
—Since this old world began!)

For you, who saw them gayly win
—Both hand and heart away,
Knew well where dwelt the mockery in
—That foolish little play.

(“If love were all—if love were all,”
—The viols sobbed and cried,
“Then love were best whate'er befall!”

Kiss , lovely Celia, and be kind;
Let my desires freedom find,
Sit thee down,
And we will make the gods confess
Mortals enjoy some happiness.

Mars would disdain his mistress' charms
If he beheld thee in my arms,
And descend,
Thee his mortal queen to make,
Or live as mortal for thy sake.

Venus must lose her title now,
And leave to brag of Cupid's bow;
Silly Queen!
She hath but one, but I can spy
Ten thousand Cupids in thy eye.

Nor may the sun behold our bliss,
For sure thy eyes do dazzle his;