love poetry

AY , still he loves
The lion-tressed Bellona, like a bride;
Woos her with blows; and when his limbs all sweat
With struggling through the iron ranks of war,
Down doth he tumble on the tired ground,
Wipes his red forehead; cries ‘How brave is this!’
And dreams all night of bloody victory!

  A. The tide of love sets from me!
  B. Pshaw! 'tmay turn.
Love's not a petty stream, runs all one way:
But like the Ocean,—deep, and vast, and swayed
By Phantasy, its moon! This hour it rolls
Inward upon a rough and barren beach;
To-morrow far away. Dost thou despair
'Twill ever reach thee? Oh, there 's none so base,
But have their worshippers. Dost thou not know
The corse which one unmanner'd wave rejects,
The next will ravish. Thou mayst see it borne
Far out from sight of land, and there 'twill ride

COUSIN , I wear

This bluntness as a shield. But, when you come,
Straightway I strip my bull-hide armour off,
And bare my heart before you. Should you kill me,
Why so; I'll die more loyally than the fool
Who whispers of love through tears. I never weep.
Sometimes I shake, indeed, as oaks rent down
Shake in the blast; but not a groan comes forth,
To tell what pain dwells inwards. Pity me!
Love me, sweet cousin! If thou'lt lend me a grain
Of that same precious heart, I'll pay thee back

Loves she? She loves not: sue hath never loved.
Her walk is easy; her discourse is neat:
She sigheth not; her smile has mirth in it:
Her gaze is firm, untroubled, cloudless, cold:
No fear makes pale her cheek: No hopeless pain
Lies there; nor hope, half-hidden: No sweet trouble
Stains it with beauty like the rose's leaf:—
But all is free as air, as fresh as youth,
As clear from care as untouched innocence.

  Y. With what respect
Yon burgher bows to you.
  A. He is a fool:
He ducks unto my purse, which will not open;
Passing you by, whom radiant youth and love,
And hope and health, (the kingly wine of life,)
And earnest thoughts of noble deeds to come,
Sustain and strengthen. Yet, be not too proud:
For dreams are fading. As you sit beside
The stream that flows into oblivion,
Gathering the golden pebbles from its banks,
Summer will pass, and Autumn, moaning low,
(And you will hear them not;) and suddenly

Sigh not for Children. Thou wilt love them much;
And Care will follow Love, and then Despair.
First, one will sicken; then, another leave thee
For the base world; and he thou lov'st the most,—
The light o' thy life, girl, will go out at last,
Like fading starlight; leaving thee, alone,
To sordid thoughts and childless misery.

The love of parents hath a deep still source;
And falleth like a flood upon their child.
Sometimes the child is grateful: then his love
Comes like the spray returning.—In this case,
A father, full of truth, has checked his son;
Harshly perhaps; for many a benefit
Puts on the vizor of a stern reproof:
But, oh! within, (as roughest rinds conceal
The tenderest kernels,) gentle thoughts abide:
Sweet meanings; seeds that, if the soil be sure,
Will bring forth fruits of wisdom.

Nature never made
A heart all marble; but, in 'ts fissures, sows
The wild flower Love; from whose rich seeds spring forth
A world of mercies and sweet charities.

Look , where she stands! Hath the magician Love
Touched her to stone? No, no: she breathes, she moves!
Beauty sits bravely in her glittering eye;
And passion stains her cheek. What thoughts are these,
Unfolding like rose flowers at dawn of day?—
Methinks she sees the sunny Future lie
Basking before her.

Dost thou not love the golden antique time,
When knights and heroes, for a lady's love,
Would spear the dragon?
Or when Boccaccio's dames, now long ago,
Lay laughing on the grass, hearing and telling
Wild love adventures, witty merry tales,
That made the heart leap high. And yet, even they
Would sadden amidst their flowers, when that some story
(Like a rose unfolded) was betrayed, which shewed
What Love indeed was made of,—when the world—
Chance—falsehood—danger tried its truth till death,
And proved its hues unaltered.