poems about love

Since that I may not have
Love on this side the grave,
Let me imagine Love
Since not mine is the bliss
Of “claspt hands and lips that kiss.”
Let me in dreams it prove
What tho' as the years roll
No soul shall melt to my soul,
Let me conceive such thing;
Tho' never shall entwine
Loving arms around mine
Let dreams caresses bring
To live—it is my doom—
Lonely as in a tomb,
This cross on me was laid;
My God, I know not why;
Here in the dark I lie,
Lonely, yet not afraid.

Is it to love, to fix the tender gaze,
To hide the timid blush, and steal away—
To shun the busy world, and waste the day
In some rude mountain's solitary maze?
Is it to chant one name in ceaseless lays,
To hear no words that other tongues can say,
To watch the pale moon's melancholy ray,
To chide in fondness, and in folly praise?
Is it to pour the involuntary sigh,
To dream of bliss, and wake new pangs to prove—
To talk, in fancy, with the speaking eye,
Then start with jealousy, and wildly rove?

Still two more years the Lord has given
Purely from His loving kindness
I should like to live contritely
In this precious time of grace.
Today is the time of dying
Tomorrow is the time of inheriting.

All night I dream you love me well,
All day I dream that you are cold:
Which is the dream? ah, who can tell,
Ah would that it were told.

So I should know my certain doom,
Know all the gladness or the pain;
So pass into the dreamless tomb,
Or never doubt again.

He gave you love for an hour,
He gave you gold for a day,
My sweetheart, my wonderful flower;
He tempted you, led you astray.
But I would have given my heart to you,
Darling, my love and my pride;
Opened its every part to you,
Made you my being's bride!

What did he give you? Riches!
What are they all but a dream?
Wait but till Death's hand twitches
The curtain—away they stream
I would have given you passion
Pure as God's love, and as free:
I would have loved in the fashion,

Nay , tempt me not to love again,
There was a time when love was sweet;
Dear Nea! had I known thee then,
Our souls had not been slow to meet.
But, oh, this weary heart hath run,
So many a time, the rounds of pain,
Not even for thee, thou lovely one,
Would I endure such pangs again.

If there be climes, where never yet
The print of beauty's foot was set,
Where man may pass his loveless nights,
Unfevered by her false delights,
Thither my wounded soul would fly,
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye

Such wondrous Friendship, wondrous Love,
As constitutes their Bliss Above;
And such a strong refining Fire,
As melts them into one Desire,
Makes both their Aims, their Thoughts the same,
And leaves them different but in Name.

Was never true love loved in vain,
For truest love is highest gain.
No art can make it: it must spring
Where elements are fostering.
So in heaven's spot and hour
Springs the little native flower,
Downward root and upward eye,
Shapen by the earth and sky.

Let the high Muse chant loves Olympian:
We are but mortals, and must sing of man.

Tell me, dearest, what is love?
'Tis a lightning from above,
'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire,
'Tis a boy they call Desire
'Tis a grave,
Gapes to have
Those poor fools that long to prove.

Tell me more, are women true?
Yes, some are, and some as you
Some are willing, some are strange,
Since you men first taught to change.
And till troth
Be in both,
All shall love, to love anew.

Tell me more yet, can they grieve?
Yes, and sicken sore, but live,
And be wise, and delay,