Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride!
The lips are cold, the brow is pale,
That thou didst kiss in love and pride;
He cannot hear thy wail,
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound:
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground.

When the nightingale in the leaves
Gives, seeks, and takes love,
And happily begins his song,
And gazes often at his mate,
And the streams are clear and the meadows fair,
Because of the new pleasure which prevails,
A great joy settles in my heart.

I am eager for a love affair—
For I know no more worthy enjoyment—
Which I pray for and desire, and it would be good
If she made me a gift of love;
For she has a full body, delicate and fair,
With nothing that could be unbecoming,
And her good, pleasurable love.

I am preoccupied with this love

My love was warm; for that I crossed
The mountains and the sea,
Nor counted that endeavour lost
That gave my love to me.

If that indeed were love at all
As still, my love, I trow,
By what dear name am I to call
The bond that holds me now?

O know to end, as to begin;
A minute's loss in love is sin.
These homours will the night outwear
In their own pastimes here;
You do our rites much wrong
In seeking to prolong
These outward pleasures:
The night hath other treasures
Than these, though long concealed,
Ere day to be revealed.
Then know to end, as to begin;
A minute's loss in Love is sin.
(from Masque of Hymen)

What but the love of God could have softened
And made forgiving the people of Spoon River
Toward me who wronged the bed of Thomas Merritt
And murdered him beside?
Oh, loving hearts that took me in again
When I returned from fourteen years in prison!
Oh, helping hands that in the church received me
And heard with tears my penitent confession,
Who took the sacrament of bread and wine!
Repent, ye living ones, and rest with Jesus.

Oh my love's like the red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
My love's like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonny lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I can love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only love,
Oh fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
Though 'twere ten thousand mile.

A Rhyme of good Death's inn!
My love came to that door;
And she had need of many things,
The way had been so sore.

My love she lifted up her head,
“And is there room?” said she;
“There was no room in Bethlehem's inn
For Christ who died for me.”

But said the keeper of the inn,
“His name is on the door.”
My love then straightway entered there:
She hath come back no more.

I want to see him
but even in dreams I don't dare—
morning after morning
I'm more ashamed to see
how love has changed my looks

I LOVE thee—I love thee!
'Tis all that I can say;—
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day;
The very echo of my heart,
The blessing when I pray:
I love thee—I love thee!
Is all that I can say.

I love thee—I love thee!
Is ever on my tongue;
In all my proudest poesy
That chorus still is sung;
It is the verdict of my eyes,
Amidst the gay and young:
I love thee—I love thee!
A thousand maids among.

I love thee—I love thee!
Thy bright and hazel glance,
The mellow lute upon those lips,

Love unreturn'd, how ere the flame
Seeme great and pure, may still admitt
degrees of more, and a new name
and strength acceptance gives to itt.

Till then, by honor ther's noe tie
layd on itt, that it ne're decay,
the minds last act by constancy
ought to be seald, and not the way.

Did ought but loves perfection bind
who should assigne at what degree
of love, fayth ought to fix the mynd
and in what limitts wee are free.
Soe hardly in A single harte
is any love conceived
that fancye still supplyes one part
supposing itt received.