poems about love

All day I tell my rosary
For now my love's away:
To-morrow he shall come to me
About the break of day;
A rosary of twenty hours,
And then a rose of May;
A rosary of fettered flowers,
And then a holy-day.

All day I tell my rosary,
My rosary of hours:
And here's a flower of memory,
And here's a hope of flowers,
And here's an hour that yearns with pain
For old forgotten years,
An hour of loss, an hour of gain,
And then a shower of tears.

All day I tell my rosary,
Because my love's away;

Love setteth me a-burning,
When my new spouse had won me;
My piteous state discerning,
Had set his ring upon me:
The conqueror's prize returning,
Love's knife had all undone me,
All my heart broke with yearning.
Love setteth me a-burning.

My heart was broke asunder:
Earthward my body sprawling,
The arrow of Love's wonder
From out the crossbow falling,
Like to a shaft of thunder
Made war of peace, enthralling
My life for passion's plunder.
Love setteth me a-burning.

I die of very sweetness.

Praise the Lord for all the seasons,
Praise Him for the gentle spring,
Praise the Lord for glorious summer,
Birds and beasts and everything.
Praise the Lord Who sends the harvest,
Praise Him for the winter snows;
Praise the Lord, all ye who love Him,
Praise Him, for all things He knows.

Once on a time, once on a time,
—Before the Dawn began,
There was a nymph of Dian's train
—Who was beloved of Pan;
Once on a time a peasant lad
—Who loved a lass at home;
Once on a time a Saxon king
—Who loved a queen of Rome.

The world has but one song to sing,
—And it is ever new,
The first and last of all the songs
—For it is ever true—
A little song, a tender song,
—The only song it hath;
“There was a youth of Ascalon
—Who loved a girl of Gath.”

A thousand thousand years have gone,

That sputter of rain, flipping the hedge-rows
And making the highways hiss,
How I love it!
And the touch of you upon my arm
As you press against me that my umbrella
May cover you.

Tinkle of drops on stretched silk.
Wet murmur through green branches.

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakes the morrow,
But a' the pride o' Spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.—
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And Care his bosom wringing.—

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity me;
If thou shalt love anither;
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,

Ifreeze, I freeze, and nothing dwels
In me but Snow, and ysicles.
For pitties sake give your advice,
To melt this snow, and thaw this ice;
I'le drink down Flames, but if so be
Nothing but love can supple me;
I'le rather keepe this frost, and snow,
Then to be thaw'd, or heated so.

I dreamed my love came in my sleep,
Lowlands, Lowlands, away, my John.
His eyes were wet as he did weep,
My Lowlands, away!

I shall never kiss you again, he said,
Lowlands, Lowlands, away, my John!
For I am drowned in the Lowland seas.
My Lowlands, away!

No other man shall think me fair,
Lowlands, Lowlands, away, my John!
My love lies drowned in the windy Lowlands,
My Lowlands, away!

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five grey hairs, or ruined fortune flout;
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honor, or his Grace;
Or the king's real, or his stamped face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?

Folk need a lot of loving in the morning;
The day is all before, with cares beset—
The cares we know, and they that give no warning;
For love is God's own antidote for fret.

Folk need a heap of loving at the noontime—
In the battle lull, the moment snatched from strife—
Halfway between the waking and the croontime,
While bickering and worriment are rife.

Folk hunger so for loving at the nighttime,
When wearily they take them home to rest—
At slumber song and turning-out-the-light time—