love poems for her

In vain I touch the warbling lute,
To chear my love-sick mind;
Or plumb-tree pipe, or boxen flute,
Unless my DELIAS kind; —

Unless the Nymph, who reigns confest,
Queen of the joys I share;
Vouchfafes to drive from out my breast,
The pain that rankles there.

For ah! in love, the fev'rish soul
Flies madd'ning thro' the brain;
And arts that should the sense controul,

Polly , when your lips you join,
Lovely ruby lips to mine;
To the bee the flow'ry field
Such a banquet does not yield;
Not the dewy morning rose
So much sweetness does enclose;
Not the gods such nectar sip,
As Colin from thy balmy lip:
Kiss me then, with rapture kiss,
We'll surpass the gods in bliss.

Come , my fairest, learn of me,
Learn to give and take the bliss;
Come, my love, here's none but we,
I'll instruct thee how to kiss.
Why turn from me that dear face?
Why that blush and downcast eye?
Come, come, meet my fond embrace,
And the mutual rapture try.

Throw thy lovely twining arms
Round my neck, or round my waist;
And whilst I devour thy charms,
Let me closely be embrac'd:
Then when soft ideas rise,
And the gay desires grow strong;
Let them sparkle in thy eyes,

OF GENEVA, SWITZERLAND .

What shall I call thee? My sunbeam, my star?
Nay, one is too transient, the other too far.

Shall I call thee a dew-drop, a joy a delight,
A rose-bud, a song-bird, a beautiful sprite?

Nay, love, I will call thee a rainbow that spanned
My heart and my life, in a lone, foreign land,

For tender and faithful, far-reaching and free
As the sign of God's promise, thy love was to me.

If I knew how the earth woos a bright, summer shower;

WRITTEN AFTER THE COMPLETION OF SOME EARLY POEMS .

Whose lot so drear, it ne'er has known
A kindly smile, a cheering tone?
The loneliest live not all alone.

Some form of love the darkest fate
Exists to bless and consecrate;
And none are wholly desolate,

While 'midst Time's myriad hearts, one heart —
To which their own may all impart
Of care or hope — is set apart,

As was methinks thine own for me,
So rich in love and constancy;
Although I so unworthy be.

I WAS a bard: — she listened to my lay
As there her questioning soul had answer found.
She stooped to pluck my wild flowers on the way

Fancies that teem from the prolific ground
In the heart's solstice, — in whose inner day
Through all the pleasant paths of earth we wound.

And sometimes through her music of delight
An undersound of sadness softly stole,
And floated, 'twixt the fountain pure and bright

Of her deep joy and heaven, a cloud of dole
That almost seemed relief; for scarce below

PRESENTED BY A FAIR GIRL .

O WHY do you fade so soon, fair flowers?
Is it for love of your native bowers?
For your sweet companions blooming there;
For the golden sunshine's loving care;
For the twilight dew,
So tender and true,
And the soft caress of the purple air?

Do ye miss the shadows cool and deep
Of leaves that whisper themselves to sleep?
Or pine for the kiss of the soft starlight
That trembled down, so still and white,
From its home above.

ATHOS .

Thy mind was fit for prehistoric time,
When man was perfect, ere the birth of guile;
I love the gentle glamour of thy smile;
I love thy heart beyond all taint or crime.

No passion base e'er touched thee with its slime;
In thee dwelt radiant honor and no wile;
And not a thought ignoble could defile
Thy soul, that ever higher seemed to climb!

I.

Since , by the Fair Sex, Men are priz'd,
Not for their Wit's, but Money's Store,
And Wits, for Want of Coin, despis'd;
'Tis Nonsense to Love, and be Poor;

II.

Since Noble, Wise, Good, Rich Men are,
By Women thought, for Money's Store,
And Love can, but by Gifts, appear;
'Tis Miserable to be Poor;

III.

Since my Saint, but with Offerings,

Thy Beauty, which invited first my Love,
And me to taste the Joys of yours did move,
Did first both's Fatal Disappointment prove;
Thy sudden, unexpected Meeting me,
Made me to fail (in what thou met'st for) thee,
More backward, for thy Forwardness, to be;
Thy Beauty, which first rais'd my Passion so,
Its own Delay did make my Passion grow;
At once its Cause, and its Impediment,
And made my Love its own Desire prevent;
The Cause then of my Love, is now its Blame,
My Love, since not my Sin, is more my Shame;