love poetry

I've sown the millet, yet I dare not reap the millet sown,
I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink from calling her my own.

To sow and reap not — love and keep not — strange and sad decree;
Sown, not gather'd — lov'd, not wedded — luckless doom for me.

Beneath the ash tree, near the mill upon the mountain brow,
My maiden swore eternal love — where is her promise now?

I gave a garland — from a farland — and she gave a ring
To her lover — idle treasure — which no love could bring.

Florinda, fond our Hearts to move,
Forth all at once her Art will call:
'Tis at first Sight she gains your Love,
Or she can ne'er disturb at all.

Not so divine Amelia tries,
Nor of such Conquests would she boast;
She knows what's taken by Surprize,
May by the next Surprize be lost.

She, with a softer, easier Grace,
Kindles at first a gentle Fire;

Love's for Youth, and not for Age,
E'en though Age should wear a crown;
For the Poet, not the Sage;
Not the Monarch, but the Clown.

Love 's for Peace, and not for War,
E'en though War bring all renown;
For the Violet, not the Star;
For the Meadow, not the Town.

Love 's for lads and Love 's for maids,
Courts a smile and flees a frown;
Love 's for Love, and saucy jades
Love Love most when Love has flown.

Love a cruel tyrant is:
Slays his victims with a glance,

Waller was noble, rich, polite, and young:
Yet Sidney slighted him, because he sung:
To small Success in Love great Wits are born;
Superiour Worth when did not Woman scorn?

Oft Jove , they say, descended from above,
And to his Arms receiv'd some mortal Love:
Once let his Godship's Rule inverted be;
Let mortal Arms enclose Divinity.

It seems to me as I think of her,
That my youth has come again:
I hear the breath of summer stir
The leaves in the old refrain:
" Oh! my Lady-love! oh! my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be?
I will seek my Love, with the wings of a dove,
And pray her to love but me. "

The flower-kissed meadows all once more
Are green with grass and plume;
The apple-trees again are hoar
With fragrant snow of bloom.
Oh! my Lady-love, Oh, my Lady-love!
Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.

BY FREDERICK W. THOMAS .

'T is said that absence conquers love!
But, oh! believe it not;
I 've tried, alas! its pow'r to prove,
But thou art not forgot.
Lady, though fate has bid us part,
Yet still thou art as dear —
As fixed in this devoted heart,
As when I clasp'd thee here.

I plunge into the busy crowd,
And smile to hear thy name;
And yet, as if I thought aloud,

There is that in my heart that will not let me sleep;
There is that beneath my heart that cries without a voice.
I was not alone in the summer:
In the winter I was all alone.
The ashes on my hearth are red, but not with fire.

Many times he kissed me on the eyes,
And many, many times upon the mouth.
And he said to me: " Thou art mine. "
And to him I said: " I am thine. "
The ashes on my hearth are red, but not with fire.

Then when I had waited many days
He came to me, and all the bells were ringing.

Come all ye tender Nymphs and sighing Swains,
Hear how our Thyrsis, Daphnis death complains
In Notes more sweet he doth his Sorrows tell,
Than the harmonious mournful Philomel .
With his sad Airs let all our Griefs combine,
And sighing Eccho in the Consort joyn;
Till o'er the pittying Plains the Tidings spread,
Pans Darling Daphnis to Eliziums fled:
Daphnis the tunefull'st Youth we knew among,
The softening Swains till gentle Thyrsis Sung.
Thyrsis , whose Muse of all our blooming Grove,

O IT shines so brightly —
O I saw it shine,
I will pluck the floweret,
And it shall be mine.

No! it was no floweret,
'Twas my cherish'd one —
And he shone so brightly,
For with love he shone.