love poems for her

I was just
shoving off
in my boat

when I heard
someone stomping
and singing on the shore!

Peach Blossom Lake
is a thousand feet deep

but it can't compare
with Wang Lun's love
or the way he said

In love and piety great Bishop by ,
O how you honour well the Deity;
How you do love the people and care so,
No prose so by above their reach to sow .

Sow you do Gods blest Word, casting the seed,
Preparing so that it increase may breed,
On the grounds strength or weaknes, having eye,
Respecting not to please the sence thereby:
Seeking the true and Orthodoxall sence,
With plainnes and with simple Innocence;
On sowing not with high and lofty prose ,
Onely in teaching, seeking to win those

We must burn up
like incense
Give of ourselves
Lower our hands until we feel
them in the body of another
Love each other in the word,
on the way, in solitude,
our testimonial for a time
without extreme positions.
Construct more smiles
in order to give them
Live in every syllable
the commandments
of Betances.
Eat of the fruit of that tree.
Drink of the peace of the thought.
And
love ourselves,
above all,
love ourselves.

I.

Little flutt'ring busy Heart,
Tell me why this pleasing Smart?
What's the Reason when we meet,
Dimpl'd Smiles each other greet.

II.

Sure some attractive Pow'r,
From our Birth to present Hour,
Pre-ordain'd that we should love,
Let us then its Pleasures prove.

III.

Frankly, thus, my lovely Fair,
By your sparkling Eyes, and Hair,
I invite you to explain,
Why create each other Pain?

IV.

Hence dull ceremonious Mode,
How I hate the formal Road!

Down behind the hidden village, fringed around with hazel brake,
(Like a holy hermit dreaming, half asleep and half awake,
One who loveth the sweet quiet for the happy quiet's sake,)
Dozing, murmuring in its visions, lay the heaven-enamoured lake.

And within a dell, where shadows through the brightest days abide,
Like the silvery swimming gossamer by breezes scattered wide,
Fell a shining skein of water that ran down the lakelet's side,
As within the brain by beauty lulled, a pleasant thought may glide.

She was the first I loved; but years had gone
Since we had parted. Still the very look,
That lent me such enchantment, that I seemed
Raised to a higher being, when she sat
Sweet in her mildness by me, or with light
And flying footstep hastened to my call,
And hung upon my words with such a fond
And all-confiding earnestness, — that look
Still lived in all its light before me, fair
As the fresh dress of nature in the calm,
Unclouded beauty of an April eve,
When the gay twilight ends, and in her full

Charres very well all Iewels , may be said,
Hearty firme love hath your true honour made;
A most entire affection in your Sier
Regarded well our King, whom all desire;
Long life may long unto his raigne succeed,
England of him hath evermore great need:
So well we love him, that we much affect,

Very much loving, where he doth select.
In you then finding, for your fathers sake,
Largely delight our Soveraigne doth take,
Loving him so intirely as we do.
Ever true honour we do wish unto,

O Evening! thou art lovely: — in thy dress
Of sober gray I woo thee, when thy star
Comes o'er the hazy hills, that rise afar,
When tender thoughts upon my spirit press,
And with the whispering gales and fanning airs
The quiet swelling of my bosom pairs;
And by the lake that lieth motionless,
Low in the secret hollow, where the shade,
By bending elms and drooping willows made,
Displays its peaceful canopy, and gives
A moving picture to the lymph below,
Where float the sapphire sky, the clouds of snow,

O, Love was made to mourn,
Its home is not below;
While in this being's bourn,
It still must weep in woe.

Its home is in the skies;
A wanderer with men,
It turns its longing eyes
To find that home again.

But there are forms so bright,
So fair, they seem its own;
They glow, like stars at night,
When clouds away have flown.

And there we fondly turn,
And think, that love's pure fire
Will ever brightly burn,
The spirit's vestal pyre.

But oh! how short the light,

Should love return before I die,
If haply love could live so long,
He will not come with smile or sigh,
Nor wake in me the gift of song.

No, rather with a lordly scorn
I would receive the fatal trust,
For pleasures out of season born
Are ashes at the core, and dust.

And beauty's eyes might plead in vain,
And music's voice intone forever —
I should hear nothing in the strain
But one sad note of never, never.