Love poems

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A Poem Upon The Death Of O.C.

© Andrew Marvell

That Providence which had so long the care
Of Cromwell's head, and numbred ev'ry hair,
Now in its self (the Glass where all appears)
Had seen the period of his golden Years:

From the Commemoration Ode

© Harriet Monroe

WASHINGTON

WHEN dreaming kings, at odds with swift paced time,

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again."
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.

The Fair Singer

© Andrew Marvell

To make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an Enemy,
In whom both Beauties to my death agree,
Joyning themselves in fatal Harmony;
That while she with her Eyes my Heart does bind,
She with her Voice might captivate my Mind.

Last Instructions to a Painter

© Andrew Marvell

Here, Painter, rest a little, and survey
With what small arts the public game they play.
For so too Rubens, with affairs of state,
His labouring pencil oft would recreate.

Damon The Mower

© Andrew Marvell

Heark how the Mower Damon Sung,
With love of Juliana stung!
While ev'ry thing did seem to paint
The Scene more fit for his complaint.

Daphnis And Chloe

© Andrew Marvell

Daphnis must from Chloe part:
Now is come the dismal Hour
That must all his Hopes devour,
All his Labour, all his Art.

Lines Written At Sea (II)

© Frances Anne Kemble

But love thee still,
Through good and ill,
With the constancy
Of eternity:
Why art thou weeping,
O fool, for the dead?

The Unfortunate Lover

© Andrew Marvell

Alas, how pleasant are their dayes
With whom the Infant Love yet playes!
Sorted by pairs, they still are seen
By Fountains cool, and Shadows green.

Thoughts in a Garden

© Andrew Marvell

HOW vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their uncessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb or tree,

Mourning

© Andrew Marvell

You, that decipher out the Fate
Of humane Off-springs from the Skies,
What mean these Infants which of late
Spring from the Starrs of Chlora's Eyes?

Wilfred

© John Le Gay Brereton

What of these tender feet
That have never toddled yet?
What dances shall they beat,
With what red vintage wet?
In what wild way will they march or stray, by what sly paynims met?

Moses In The Bulrushes. A Sacred Drama

© Hannah More

Hebrew Woman.
Jochebed, Mother of Moses.
Miriam, his Sister.

To His Noble Friend, Mr. Richard Lovelace, Upon His Poems

Sir,
Our times are much degenerate from those
Which your sweet muse with your fair fortune chose,
And as complexions alter with the climes,

On A Connubial Rupture In High Life

I sigh, fair injured stranger! for thy fate;
But what shall sighs avail thee? Thy poor heart,
'Mid all the 'pomp and circumstance' of state,
Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start

The Match

Nature had long a Treasure made
Of all her choisest store;
Fearing, when She should be decay'd,
To beg in vain for more.

Men wondered why I loved you, and none guessed

How sweet your slow, divine stupidity,

Music's Empire

First was the world as one great cymbal made,
Where jarring winds to infant Nature played.
All music was a solitary sound,
To hollow rocks and murm'ring fountains bound.