love poems for her

Evening winds are breathing,
Through the forest green;
Crimson clouds are wreathing,
In the sky, serene.

Trees, so tall and branching,
Relics of the past,
In the soft breeze waving,
Roaring in the blast,

Bloom in future ages,
Bloom in Freedom's light;
Though the tempest rages,
Stand in all your might.

Native land, so lovely,
Bright thy beauties are;
Long may noon beam o'er thee,
Let thy night be far.

On thy rising glories,
Let the clear light glow,

When Jesus came to earth of old,
He came in weakness and in woe;
He wore no form of angel mould,
But took our nature poor and low.

But when He cometh back once more,
Then shall be set the great white Throne;
And earth and heaven shall flee before
The face of Him that sits thereon.

O Son of God, in glory crown'd,
The Judge ordain'd of quick and dead;
O Son of Man, so pitying found
For all the tears Thy people shed;

Be with us in this darken'd place,
This weary, restless, dangerous night;

Palimpsest heart, on which so many names
Love's hand has writ! Blind Love, could he not know
Which the true script of Fate, and thus forego
To lend his torch to kindle transient flames?
New risen joy each new day's sun proclaims;
Each dawning sets the amorous east aglow;
Each day is bright until its sun is low;
As of fair days, so is it of fair dames.

Why should we chide the glad who find life sweet?
Their careless hearts are like a favored year,
All blessed summer; or a garden ground

AN ALLEGORY,

The night was calm, the sky serene,
The sea a mirror display'd,
On its bosom the twinkling stars were seen,
The moon-crested waves were dancing between,
And smiling through evening's shade.

On that placid sea Pleasure's bark was riding,
Love and Joy were its guides through the deep,
And their hearts beat high, while on fortune confiding,
They smil'd at the forms that were gloomily striding,
O'er the brow of the wave-wash'd steep.

Those forms were Malice, and Scorn, and Hate,

Thy love inspires the Story Teller's tongue.
To tales of hearts with disappointment wrung,
Thy love inspires; — fresh flows the copious stream,
And what's not true, let fruitful fancy dream.

I

HER greeting is a dulcet bell —
Love's daybreak and delight;
Her smile is noon, and her farewell
Leads in the stars at night.
She is the sunrise and the gleam
Of dew upon the rose,
The vision that evokes the dream,
The song in slumber's prose.

II

Roses are the rhymes I wreathe —
Take them, every one;
Love — the fragrance that you breathe,
And your smile their sun.
When the petals fall apart,
Then in melody,
You shall read a rose's heart,
And the heart of me.

As Love and I went walking
Along the sea's gray shore,
We heard the green waves talking,
And love was all their lore.

The purple shadows shifted,
And through the twilight long
From singing stars there drifted
Our sweet betrothal song.

But once, in days long after,
We walked there, Love and I;
The waves had lost their laughter,
The stars were hushed on high.

And each remembered only
A little voice — oh, years,
How long they are, and lonely!
Oh, heart, how full of tears!

My songs are all for her
Whose love I fain would win:
Each to her heart, a wanderer,
Goes singing: Let me in!

Her eyes my beacons be,
Her lips my rosy guides,
And in her heart a melody
For every word abides.

Be brave, be brave, my song,
Nor falter in the quest:
Love in her heart has waited long
To greet the singing guest.

And be it yours to know
The latch lift on the door;
Once in her heart — Go, lyric, go!
Be hers for evermore!

It matters not how far I fare,
Or in what land I bide,
Your voice sings ever on the air,
Your face shines at my side.

For me each crimson flower that slips
Its velvet sheath of green
Yields the remembrance of your lips
With all their sweets between.

Your hair is in the dusk that lies
Around me when I rest;
My only stars are your dear eyes,
Love's own and loveliest.

Happy am I, though far apart
From all that makes life dear:
Love dwells contented in my heart,
Exiled yet always near.

Let me a garland twine
For poets nine,
Whose verse
I love best to rehearse.

For each a laurel leaf,
One stanza brief,
I make
For memory's sweet sake.

First, then, THEOCRITUS,
Whose song for us
Still yields
The fragrance of the fields.

Next, HORACE, singing yet
Of love, regret,
And flowers:
This Roman rose is ours.

OMAR-FITZGERALD next,
Within whose text
There lies
A charm to win the wise.

Then SHAKESPEARE, by whose light
All poets write: