love poems for her

Here I bid you all adieu,
I no more am one of you;
Ideots that are left above,
Dupes to Fortune or to Love!

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOËTHE

Unnoticed in the lonely mead,
A Violet rear'd its modest head,
A sweet and lovely flower;
A blooming maid came gadding by,
With vacant heart, and gladsome eye,
And tripp'd with sportive careless tread.

" Ah! " thought the Violet, " had I now
The Rose's matchless form and glow,
Though transient were the power;
To be but pluck'd by that sweet maid,
And on her virgin bosom laid; —
Bless'd fate, what more could Heaven bestow? "

WHICH A DYING LOVER DIRECTED HIS FRIENDS TO FILL WITH HIS
ASHES PULVERIZED .

M ARK the pure crystal that contains
All that of Strephon's love remains;
Dust — in whose emblem is express'd
That Love must never hope to rest.

The hand of Death his parting soul disarms:
He dies, in Virtue's love — in Beauty's arms:
Descending Angels consecrate the tear,
And they accept him — from an Angel here .

To covet an appropriate bliss,
The Decalogue has made a sin;
But envy at a common kiss
Makes a poor guilt, not worth a pin.
Mine 's an offence that Kings might share,
It reaches Envy's proudest height;
A Sun-beam the inspiring Fair,
And Love my envy'd Brother's right.

Y E Guardian Angels, who discover
How dearly all her Children love her,
Oh, listen to the Filial Prayer,
And shield her, with a Mother's care!
To charm, as long as breath endures,
The power is hers — the gift is yours;
Grant — for it 's all that we implore —
Her life — till she is lov'd no more!

L AST in these favour'd ranks of Hymen's train
Matilda wears the myrtle's hallow'd chain.
Perhaps a Hermit's musing visions fail
To bind in Zephyr's hand the Summer's gale;
Else he could promise to so match'd a pair
Love at the heart, and spirits light as air.
I warn'd her against pride; — but when like this,
It is the Fairy's wand of nuptial bliss —
Pride in the rank that Love has made his own,
For sense and virtue are a scepter'd throne.

By her talent a secret will Celia discover,
As the picture will speak — it will say that I love her .

Y OU love a simile; — why then have at you:
You are in Scripture the Assyrian Statue;
Of you , with equal truth, it may be said,
The feet are clay , but golden is the head .

I will confesse
With Cheerfulnesse,
Love is a thing so likes me,
That let her lay
On me all day,
Ile kiss the hand that strikes me.

I will not, I,
Now blubb'ring, cry,
It (Ah!) too late repents me,
That I did fall
To love at all,
Since love so much contents me.

No, no, Ile be
In fetters free;
While others they sit wringing
Their hands for paine;
Ile entertaine
The wounds of love with singing.