poems about love

I LOVE to watch these rugged hills,
By Hudson's rolling wave,
When angry clouds sweep o'er the sky,
And loud the tempests rave.

I love to watch the foaming surge
That heaves its sparkling crest,
But my home, the dearest spot to me,
Is in the far, far West.

I love to climb the rocky steep,
Or in the silent glade
To wander forth in pensive thought,
When twilight shadows fade.

But the rolling prairie's wide expanse
I love—I love the best—
My home,—the dearest spot to me,

Were love but true, no frost would mar the flowers,
No fatal frost that down the garden bowers
Steals hideously from bloom to blissful bloom,
The shimmering weft of summer's golden loom,
And mocks with blight their radiant, dreamful hours.

Nor would the waste and wreck of orient towers,
Slow-sunken from the reach of sun and showers,
Tax the unfeatured sands for burial room,
Were love but true.

For love is lord of earth's phantasmal powers,
And all that seems with his own fact he dowers.

We have walked in Love's land a little way,
We have learnt his lesson a little while,
And shall we not part at the end of day,
With a sigh, a smile?

A little while in the shine of the sun,
We were twined together, joined lips, forgot
How the shadows fall when the day is done,
And when Love is not.

We have made no vows—there will none be broke,
Our love was free as the wind on the hill,
There was no word said we need wish unspoke,
We have wrought no ill.

So shall we not part at the end of day,

Come, Sadhus, sing Hari's praises; come, let us sing Hari's praise.
Sanctify the mind with meditation, the ear with the heavenly waters of love.
Sanctify the tongue with singing praises. Let us sing praises and be joyful.
To sing Hari's praise is a stream of nectar: to praise His love's immortal wine is sweet.
By tasting it we find salvation, by drinking thereof become immortal.
Brother of the poor, the poor's defender, Lord of the helpless, destroyer of their pains.
His Form is truth, is life, is bliss, at His feet lay down your cares.

If it shine or if it rain,
Little will I care or know.
Days, like drops upon a pane,
Slip, and join, and go.

At my door's another lad;
Here's his flower in my hair.
If he see me pale and sad,
Will he see me fair?

I sit looking at the floor.
Little will I think or say
If he seek another door;
Even if he stay.

L OVE'S infidel
Whom I adore,
You know too well
That I love you more
By a hundred score
Than mine eyes or heart!
So you'd die before
You'd be called “sweet-heart!”

But if I could seem
To set no store
By your esteem,
Then you'd love me more
By a hundred score
Than your eyes or heart,
And almost implore
To be called “sweet-heart!”

“'Tis the way of love
That who loves the best
The least can he move
His Lady's breast.”…
Ah, would I could test

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
--I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,

Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came

The Evening Star, the lover's star,
The beautiful star comes hither!
He steereth his barque
Through the azure dark,
And brings us the bright blue weather,—Love!
The beautiful bright blue weather.

The birds lie dumb, when the night stars come,
And Silence broods o'er the covers;
But a voice now wakes
In the thorny brakes,
And singeth a song for lovers,—Love!
A sad sweet song for lovers!

It singeth a song, of grief and wrong,
A passionate song for others;
Yet its own sweet pain

Well-shadowed landskip, fare-ye-well:
How I have loved you, none can tell,
At least so well
As he that now hates more
Then e'er he loved before.

But my dear nothings, take your leave;
No longer must you me deceive,
Since I perceive
All the deceit, and know
Whence the mistake did grow.

As he whose quicker eye doth trace
A false star shot to a marked place
Does run apace,
And thinking it to catch
A jelly up does snatch,

So our dull souls, tasting delight
Far off, by sense, and appetite,

The Lord accepts the love of all.
With whatsoever mind each serves Him, He knows the inner secrets of the heart.
Sevri tasted the wild plums: she set aside the sweet ones.
He put aside all scruples of defilement and ate them with undoubted mind.
Syama the friend of Sants and Bhagats came to Bidur's house.
His kindness over-flowed in boundless love: freely he tasted of his herbs.
Sent by the Kawravas the Risi came to curse: but with a single leaf all were sated.
Sur Das, the Lord is the treasury of mercy from age to age he has magnified His worshippers.