love poems for her

Young men and maids, pray tell your age,
I'll tell you of a sweet one.
She is the darling of my heart,
She is the most complete one.
Me and my love lay down one night.
All on a bed together;
When I woke up, my love was gone,
I was forced to lie without her.

2

Her yellow hair, like strands of gold,
Came rolling down my pillow.
She's the little one I love so well,
She's like the weeping willow.
" You've caused your parents to owe me a grudge
And treat me most unkindly,

You that love England, who have an ear for her music,
The slow movement of clouds in benediction,
Clear arias of light thrilling over her uplands,
Over the chords of summer sustained peacefully;
Ceaseless the leaves' counterpoint in a west wind lively,
Blossom and river rippling loveliest allegro,
And the storms of wood strings brass at year's finale:
Listen. Can you not hear the entrance of a new theme?

You who go out alone, on tandem or on pillion,
Down arterial roads riding in April,

You take a town you cannot keep;
— And, forced in turn to fly,
O'er ruins you have made shall leap
— Your deadliest enemy!
Her love is yours — and be it so —
But can you keep it? No, no, no!

Upon her brow we gazed with awe,
— And loved, and wished to love, in vain
But when the snow begins to thaw
— We shun with scorn the miry plain.
Women with grace may yield: but she
Appeared some Virgin Deity.

Bright was her soul as Dian's crest
— Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen:

. . . Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest.

You are my song come true
That I sang unbelieving;
You are my hope made new
That I tarnished with grieving.

More than the losses of love
With which love denied me,
More than the shadows of love
With which love belied me,

Is the reward of this love
That now love has given —
All of the earth of love
And love's high heaven!

Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Celia has undone me;
And yet I'll swear I can't tell how
The pleasing plague stole on me.

'Tis not her face that love creates,
For there no Graces revel;
'Tis not her shape, for there the Fates
Have rather been uncivil.

'Tis not her air, for sure in that,
There's nothing more than common;
And all her sense is only chat,
Like any other woman.

Her voice, her touch, might give the alarm--
'Tis both perhaps, or neither;
In short, 'tis that provoking charm

Yes, I will love then, I will love,
I will not now Loves Rebel prove,
Though I was once his Enemy;
Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,
Did to the Combate him defy,
An Helmet, Spear, and mighty shield,
Like some new Ajax I did wield.
Love in one hand his Bow did take,
In th'other hand a Dart did shake.
But yet in vain the Dart did throw,
In vain he often drew the Bow .
So well my Armour did resist,
So oft by flight the blow I mist.
But when I thought all danger past,
His Quiver empty'd quite at last,

A yellow dot on her forehead,
While she lies asleep in the sun,
A black dot over her beating heart,
And my charm is done, is done.
Tonight she will slip to my tipi
With wondering, half-breathed sigh.
She will part the painted curtains,
I shall watch her with half-shut eye.
The sacred charm will bind her,
Yet she will never know why.
And then if she pleases me not
I can wash my charm away
And laugh when I see her hiding
From my mocking eyes all day.

Yea, gold is son of Zeus: no rust
Its timeless light can stain;
The worm that brings man's flesh to dust
Assaults its strength in vain:
More gold than gold the love I sing,
A hard, inviolable thing.

Men say the passions should grow old
With waning years; my heart
Is incorruptible as gold,
'Tis my immortal part:
Nor is there any god can lay
On love the finger of decay.

Wounded with loue, and piercing deep desire
Of your faire face, I left my natiue land,
With Russia snow to slacke mine English fire,
But well I see, no cold can quench the brand
That Cupides coles enkindle in the brest,
Frost hath no force where friendship is possest.
The Ocean sea for all his fearefull flood,
The perils great of passage not preuaile,
To banish loue the riuers do no good,
The mountains hie cause Cupid not to quaile,
Wight are his wings, and fansie flies as fast
As any ship, for all his sailes and mast.