love poems for her

1

This love, I canna' bear it,
It cheats me night and day;
This love, I canna' wear it,
It takes my peace away.

2

This love, wa' once a flower;
But now it is a thorn, —
The joy o' evening hour,
Turn'd to a pain e're morn.

3

This love, it wa' a bud,
And a secret known to me;
Like a flower within a wood;
Like a nest within a tree.

4

This love, wrong understood,
Oft' turned my joy to pain;
I tried to throw away the bud,

Looky here! — you fellers — you
Poets I'm a-talkin' to, —
Allus rhymin', right er wrong,
'Bout your " little " love, and " long " —
'Pears to me 'at nary one
Of you fellers gits much fun
Out o' lovin' — tryin' to fit
Out some fool-receet fer it! —
Love's as broad as long!

Now, I 'low 'at love's a thing
You cain't jes' set down and sing
Out your order fer, and say
You'll hev yourn a certain way;
And how " long " a slice you'll take,
Er how short — 'cause love don't make

I SO loved once, when Death came by I hid
Away my face,
And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid
To make my hiding-place.

The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and
I turned me then
To calm my love — kiss down her shielding hand
And comfort her again.

And lo! she answered not: And she did sit
All fixedly,
With her fair face and the sweet smile of it,
In love with Death, not me.

SOMEBODY'S sent a funny little valentine to me.
It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree,
And hovering above them — just as cute as he can be —
Is a fairy cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry.

And the prankish little fellow looks so knowing in his glee,
With his golden bow and arrow, aiming most unerringly
At a pair of hearts so labeled that I may read and see
That one is meant for " One Who Loves, " and one is meant for me.
But I know the lad who sent it! It's as plain as A-B-C! —

" Now who shall say he loves me not. "

HE wooed her first in an atmosphere
Of tender and low-breathed sighs;
But the pang of her laugh went cutting clear
To the soul of the enterprise;
" You beg so pert for the kiss you seek
It reminds me, John, " she said,
" Of a poodle pet that jumps to " speak"
For a crumb or a crust of bread. "

And flashing up, with the blush that flushed
His face like a tableau-light,
Came a bitter threat that his white lips hushed
To a chill, hoarse-voiced " Good night! "

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK , 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree;
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth
'Tis thus, tho' wooed by flattering friends,

The water sings along our keel,
The wind falls to a whispering breath;
I look into your eyes and feel
No fear of life or death;
So near is love, so far away
The losing strife of yesterday.

We watch the swallow skim and dip;
Some magic bids the world be still;
Life stands with finger upon lip;
Love hath his gentle will;
Though hearts have bled, and tears have burned,
The river floweth unconcerned.

We pray the fickle flag of truce
Still float deceitfully and fair;

1.

" Wake up, wake up, you drowsy sleeper,
Wake up, wake up, it's almost day;
How can you bear to sleep and slumber
When your own true love is going away? "

2.

" Who's this, who's this at my bedroom window,
Calling so earnestly for me? "
" Lie low, lie low, it's your own true lover;
Awake, arise, and pity me.

3.

" O love, go and ask your mother
If my bride you ever can be;
And if she says no, come back and tell me,
It's the very last time I'll trouble thee. "

4.

A VIEWLESS thing is the wind,
But its strength is mightier far
Than a phalanxed host in battle line,
Than the limbs of a Samson are.

And a viewless thing is Love,
And a name that vanisheth;
But her strength is the wind's wild strength above,
For she conquers shame and Death.

Be still, thou busy foolish thing,
Nor urge me more of her to sing
Who [caused] all thy pain.
Why wilt thou dwell upon a theme
Which serves but to increase your [flame],
That still must burn in vain?

Thus to my heart I oft have said,
But as the dear enchanting maid
Has seized my soul entire,
My reason with my love combined
Is grown to every danger blind,
And joins to fan the fire.

Why pay we to the pow'rs above
Our adoration and our love,
But that they perfect are?