love poems

Blanche is Boldini minus Southern fire;
But one will flicker and the other tire:
Neither is great, for each has won a place
With more of reclame than abiding grace.
And yet, perhaps, they meet the Ruskin test,
And " try, with loving care, to do their best."

O Red Rag of the Legion! cheap but fair,
How Merit flings thee to the startled air!
Thy function in this world is manifold,
The soldier loves thee, and the bourgeois bold;
But there is none that loves thee quite so much
As brushman putting Fortune to the touch.

As it was written in the Book of Fate,
The ranting rabble loves the second-rate;
For the one touch that makes the whole world kin —
Vulgarity — is commonplace as sin.

My cruel Dear, having captived my heart,
And bound it fast in chains of restless love,
Requires it out of bondage to depart;
Yet is she sure from her it cannot move.
" Draw back, " said she, " your hopeless love from me;
Your worth requires a far more worthy place;
Unto your suit though I cannot agree,
Full many will it lovingly embrace. "
" It may be so, my dear, but, as the Sun,
When it appears, doth make the stars to vanish;
So when yourself into my thoughts do run,
All others quite out of my heart you banish.

If you would know the love which I you bear,
Compare it to the ring which your fair hand
Shall make more precious, when you shall it wear:
So my love's nature you shall understand.
Is it of metal pure? so you shall prove
My love, which ne'er disloyal thought did stain,
Hath it no end? so endless is my love,
Unless you it destroy with your disdain.
Doth it the purer wax, the more 'tis tried?
So doth my love: yet herein they dissent,
That whereas gold, the more 'tis purified,
By waxing less, doth show some part is spent;

When time nor place would let me often view
Nature's chief mirror, and my sole delight,
Her lively picture in my heart I drew,
That I might it behold both day and night:
But she, like Philip's son, scorning that I
Should portray her, wanting Apelles' art,
Commanded Love, who nought dare her deny,
To burn the picture which was in my heart.
The more Love burned, the more her picture shined;
The more it shined, the more my heart did burn:
So what to hurt her picture was assigned,
To my heart's ruin and decay did turn.

My Love is sailed, against Dislike to fight,
Which, like vild monster, threatens his decay:
The ship is Hope, which, by Desire's great might,
Is swiftly borne towards the wished bay:
The company which with my Love doth fare,
Though met in one, is a dissenting crew:
They are Joy, Grief, and never-sleeping Care,
And Doubt, which ne'er believes good news for true
Black Fear the flag is, which my ship doth bear,
Which, Dear, take down, if my Love victor be:
And let white Comfort in his place appear,

Pale Death himself did love my Philomel,
When he her virtues and rare beauty saw;
Therefore he sickness sent; which should expel
His rival Life, and my Dear to him draw.
But her bright beauty dazzled so his eyes,
That his dart Life did miss, though her it hit;
Yet, not therewith content, new means he tries,
To bring her unto Death, and make Life flit.
But Nature, soon perceiving that he meant
To spoil her only Phaenix, her chief pride,
Assembled all her force, and did prevent
The greatest mischief that could her betide.

Sickness, intending my love to betray,
Before I should sight of my Dear obtain,
Did his pale colours in my face display,
Lest that my favour might her favour gain.
Yet, not content herewith, like means it wrought,
My Philomel's bright beauty to deface;
And Nature's glory to disgrace it sought,
That my conceived love it might displace.
But my firm love could this assault well bear,
Which virtue had, not beauty, for his ground;
And yet bright beams of beauty did appear
Through sickness veil, which made my love abound:

Oh! why did Fame my heart to love betray,
By telling my Dear's virtue and perfection?
Why, did my traitor ears to it convey
That siren song, cause of my heart's infection?
Had I been deaf, or Fame her gifts concealed,
Then had my heart been free from hopeless love:
Or were my state likewise by it revealed,
Well might it Philomel to pity move.
Then should she know how Love doth make me languish,
Distracting me 'twixt hope and dreadful fear;
Then should she know my care, my plaints, and anguish,