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The best Love Poems on the internet.

Poems from our collection of love poetry for wedding, valentines day, cards to spouse etc etc - - or just for reading!!!

Valentine Poem Collection - 44

 

She, To Him III by Thomas Hardy

I will be faithful to thee; aye, I will!
And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye
That he did not discern and domicile
One his by right ever since that last Good-bye!

I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime
Of manhood who deal gently with me here;
Amid the happy people of my time
Who work their love's fulfilment, I appear

Numb as a vane that cankers on its point,
True to the wind that kissed ere canker came;
Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint
The mind from memory, and make Life all aim,

My old dexterities of hue quite gone,
And nothing left for Love to look upon.


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Saw you Never, in the Twilight by Cecil Frances Alexander

Saw you never, in the twilight,
When the sun had left the skies,
Up in heavín the clear stars shining
Through the gloom, like silver eyes?
So of old the wise men, watching,
Saw a little stranger star,
And they knew the King was given,
And they followed it from afar.

Heard you never of the story
How they crossed the desert wild,
Journeyed on by plain and mountain,
Till they found the holy Child?
How they opened all their treasure,
Kneeling to that infant King;
Gave the gold and fragrant incense,
Gave the myrrh in offering?

Know ye not that lowly Baby
Was the bright and morning Star?
He Who came to light the Gentiles,
And the darkened isles afar?
And we, too, may seek His cradle;
There our heartsí best treasures bring;
Love, and faith, and true devotion
For our Savior, God and King.


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The Star by Henry Vaughan

Whatever 'tis, whose beauty here below
Attracts thee thus and makes thee stream and flow,
And wind and curl, and wink and smile,
Shifting thy gate and guile;

Though thy close commerce nought at all imbars
My present search, for eagles eye not stars,
And still the lesser by the best
And highest good is blest;

Yet, seeing all things that subsist and be,
Have their commissions from divinity,
And teach us duty, I will see
What man may learn from thee.

First, I am sure, the subject so respected
Is well dispos'd, for bodies once infected,
Deprav'd, or dead, can have with thee
No hold, nor sympathy.

Next, there's in it a restless, pure desire
And longing for thy bright and vital fire,
Desire that never will be quench'd,
Nor can be writh'd, nor wrench'd.

These are the magnets which so strongly move
And work all night upon thy light and love,
As beauteous shapes, we know not why,
Command and guide the eye.

For where desire, celestial, pure desire
Hath taken root, and grows, and doth not tire,
There God a commerce states, and sheds
His secret on their heads.

This is the heart he craves, and who so will
But give it him, and grudge not, he shall feel
That God is true, as herbs unseen
Put on their youth and green.


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Felices by Katharine Lee Bates

We count them happy who have richly known
The sweets of life, the sunshine on the hills,
The mosses in the valley, love that fills
The heart with tears as fragrant as thine own,
O tender moonlight lily, over-blown,
When the inevitable season wills,
By gentle winds beside thy native rills--
We count them happy, yet not these alone.
There is a Crown of Thorns, Way of the Cross,
Consuming Fire that burns the spirit pure.
By luster of the gold set free from dross,
By light of heaven seen best through earth's obscure,
By the exceeding gain that waits on loss--
Behold, we count them happy who endure.


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Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave? by Thomas Hardy

Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?'
-- 'No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'

'Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?'
-- 'Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'

'But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?'
-- 'Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.

'Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!'
-- 'O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?'

'Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!'

'Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place.'




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