poems about love

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.

But Time drives flocks from field to fold;
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,

Among thy Fancies, tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kisse?
I shall resolve ye, what it is.

It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips, (all cherrie-red,)
By love and warme desires fed,
Chor. And makes more soft the Bridall Bed.

It is an active flame, that flies,
First, to the Babies of the eyes;
And charmes them there with lullabies;
Chor. And stils the Bride too, when she cries.

Then to the chin, the cheek, the eare,
It frisks, and flyes, now here, now there,

I dreamt I saw great Venus by me stand,
Leading a nodding infant by the hand;
And that she said to me familiarly—
“Take Love, and teach him how to play to me.”
She vanisht then. And I, poor fool, must turn
To teach the boy, as if he wished to learn.
I taught him all the pastoral songs I knew
And used to sing; and I informed him, too,
How Pan found out the pipe, Pallas the flute,
Phœbus the lyre, and Mercury the lute.
But not a jot for all my words cared he,
But lo! fell singing his love-songs to me;

I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be suppressed.

I MADE a song for my dear love's delight;
I wrought with all sweet words my heart could lend
To longing lips, and thrilled with joy to send
The message only love could read aright.
He came; and while I trembled in his sight,
He kissed my hands and said, “To what sweet end,
Unknowing, hast thou wrought, O gentle friend?
Singing thy song, I learned to woo, despite
My loved one's frown; and now she is my own.”
Blessing me then, he went his happy way.
The whole world sings my song, and I alone

Jesu, still the storm!
Only thou hast power,
In this troubled hour,
To bid our tremblings cease,
And give our spirits peace.
Jesu, still the storm!

Speak the potent word,
“Peace, be still!” and then
Calm returns again;
Each billow hides its crest,
And lays itself to rest.
Speak the potent word!

Jesu, love us still!
Oh, love on, love on,
As thou hast ever done;
Oh love us to the end,
Our one unchanging friend.
Jesu, love us still!

Jesu, bless us still!

O fathomless profound of rest,
In God to read a Father's name;
And childlike clinging to His breast
My birthright in His love to claim!

O miracle of grace to kneel
With boldness at the Throne of thrones;
Blood-wash'd, with nothing to conceal;
White-robed amid God's ransom'd ones!

O mystery of love divine!
Eternal Spirit, dost Thou choose
To make my lowly heart Thy shrine
And there Thy light of life diffuse?

And am I of the chosen Bride
Given by the Father to the Son,
In all His glory glorified,

I BROKE my heart because of you, my dear;
I wept full many an unmanly tear—
But as in agony I lay awake
I thought, “What lovely poems this will make!”

He loves not well whose love is bold!
I would not have thee come too nigh:
The sun's gold would not seem pure gold
Unless the sun were in the sky;
To take him thence and chain him near
Would make his beauty disappear.

He keeps his state,—keep thou in thine,
And shine upon me from afar!
So shall I bask in light divine,
That falls from love's own guiding star;
So shall thy eminence be high,
And so my passion shall not die.

But all my life shall reach its hands
Of lofty longing toward thy face,

Amidst the fairest mountain tops,
Where Zephyrus doth breathe
The pleasant gale, that clothes with flowers
The valleys underneath,

A shepherd lived, that dearly loved
(Dear love time brought to pass)
A forest nymph, who was as fair
As ever woman was.

His thoughts were higher than the hills
Whereof he had the keep,
But all his actions innocent,
As humble as his sheep:

Yet had he power, but her pure thoughts
Debarred his powers to rise
Higher than kissing of her hands
Or looking in her eyes.