love poems for her

FROM THE SPANISH. — SIXTEENTH CENTURY

When the day is brightest,
Darkness draweth near;
When the heart is lightest,
Coming grief I fear.

Eyes of heavenly splendour,
Radiance o'er me fling;
But when their light's most tender
I fear its vanishing.

Lips, where passion keepeth
Holiest incense, bend to mine;
But when woman speaketh,

one who loves someone
with the one who doesn't

on a snowy day
my bathed body, a finger
a toe — I love all of it

LUMINOUS passions reign
High in the soul of man; and they are twain.
Of these he hath made the poetry of earth —
Hath made his nobler tears, his magic mirth.
Fair Love is one of these,
The visiting vision of seven centuries;
And one is love of Nature — love to tears —
The modern passion of this hundred years.

O never to such height,
O never to such spiritual light-
The light of lonely visions, and the gleam
Of secret splendid sombre suns in dream —

O never to such long

Oh, raise those eyes to me again,
And smile again so joyously;
And fear not, love; it was not pain
Nor grief that drew those tears from me.
Beloved child! thou canst not tell
The thoughts that in my bosom swell
Whene'er I look on thee!

Thou knowest not that a glance of thine
Can bring back long-departed years,
And that thy blue eyes' magic shine
Can overflow my own with tears,

My love is coming! I take dinner early,
run out the middle gate, to the outside gate, and sit on the step. I shield my eyes with my hand. Is he coming or not? I look at the mountain opposite. Something black and white is standing there: it must be my love.
Stockings clutched to my breast, shoes in my hand, I begin to run,
racing, rolling, faster, still faster, oblivious of dry ground or wet — for I have words of love to say. One quick look tells me all: last year's stripped flax stalks have deceived me.
Luckily

One by one I've gathered up my feelings of love;
I've measured them, bagged them.
They're loaded now on the straight back of a fine strong horse.
Hey, lad,
give her the whip; send them off to my love.

What is love, what is it?
Is it round, is it square?
Is it long, is it short?
More than an inch, more than a yard?
It seems of no great length,
but somehow I don't know where it ends.

Love is a deceit.
She does not love me.
She says she comes to me in a dream:
it is a lie.
Lying awake every night,
in what dream shall I see her?

ON LOVE, TO A FRIEND .

I.

No, foolish youth — To virtuous fame
If now thy early hopes be vow'd,
If true ambition's nobler flame
Command thy footsteps from the crowd,
Lean not to Love's enchanting snare;
His songs, his words, his looks beware,
Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.

II.

By thought, by dangers, and by toils,
The wreath of just renown is worn;
Nor will ambition's awful spoils
The flowery pomp of ease adorn: