love poems for her

I lounge in the doorway and languish in vain
While Tom, Dick and Harry are dancing with Jane.

My spirit rises to the music's beat;
There is a leaden fiend lurks in my feet!
To move unto your motion, Love, were sweet

Somewhere, I think, some other where not here,
In other ages, on another sphere,
I danced with you and you with me my dear.

In perfect motion did our bodies sway,
To perfect music that was heard alway;
Woe's me, that am so dull of foot to-day!

To move unto your motion Love, were sweet;

I KNOW you're in the house;
I know you are in there;
I feel the green and breathing
All around the air.
I know you're safe and warm;
I know you're very near.
Oh, darling Tree,
Do you hear?

I promised not to look
(The way I did before),
But I can hear you purring —
Purring, through the door:
A green, soft, purring;
Just as if you knew:
Everybody here

Do not dream of me.
Nay, without mistake,
Even for love's sake
And all heedfully;
Do not dream of me.

All day long am I
Leal to all you ask:
Wish and care and task,
Every need come nigh; —
Still to serve and try.

But with my Good-night,
O unrippled sleep!
What is here, should keep
This bewildered light
From its skyward right?

Let me feel no need;
Not a love that clings.
Let me have my wings;
Love my wings indeed:
Give my wings godspeed!

Love came by in bitter need.
Oh, but I was sad!
Love stood by in bitter need,
And I nothing had.

Empty were the hands I held
Silently to Love.
Empty, as my heart of words,
Stared the sky above.

Lo, Love took — and thankfully —
All my wish for true;
Then my hands gave back to me,
Full of kisses too.

1.

O Love, where is the bed we made
In scented wood-ways for sweet sin?
The sun was with us and the shade;
The warm blue covered us in:

All men their curse on us had laid —
Finding had slain us both therein;
But, summer with us, not afraid
Were we to love and sin.

O Love, the crushed place is quite fair;
Leaves have sprung back and flowers grown there;

Be these the selfsame verses
That once when I was young
Charm'd me with dancing magic
To love their foreign tongue,

Delicate buds of passion,
Gems of a master's art,
That broke forth rivalling Nature
In love-songs of the heart;

Like fresh leaves of the woodland
Whose trembling screens would house
The wanton birdies courting
Upon the springing boughs?

Alas, how now they are wither'd!
And fallen from the skies
In yellowy tawny crumple
Their tender wreckage lies,

" She was beautiful in life And beautiful in death. "

Gone, with all her sparkling beauty,
Gone, with innocence and youth;
Gone, with loving ways and kindness,
Gone, with happiness and truth.

In the tomb they gently laid her —
Even strangers dropped a tear;
And one heart will feel the anguish
Of her loss for many a year.

Father, mother, loving sisters,
Deeply mourn the lov'd and lost;

We the White Witches are, that free
Enchanted hearts from slavery;
Love's dark abodes all tremble at our voice,
And at the awful noise
All the blind archers scud along,
And frighted to their shady myrtles throng.
We cloud the sun that shines in Caelia's eyes,
Hush the winds swelled by lovers' sighs,
And stop their tides of tears even when they highest rise.
We, by our magic's guiltless power,
Hearts long since dead to a new life restore.

All Love's black arts and fatal wiles,

Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain?
Are heaven's choicest gifts bestowed in vain?
A plenteous fortune, and a beauteous bride,
Your love rewarded, gratify'd your pride:
Yet leaving her — 'tis me that you pursue
Without one single charm, but being new.
How vile is man! how I detest their ways
Of artful falsehood, and designing praise!
Tasteless, an easy happiness you slight,
Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight,
Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind)
Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin'd?

Young , loving, and beloved — these are brief words;
And yet they touch on all the finer chords,
Whose music is our happiness; the tone
May die away, and be no longer known,
In the sad changes brought by darker years,
When the heart has to treasure up its tears,
And life looks mournful on an altered scene —
Still it is much to think that it has been.