Best Love Poems

I loved her for that she was beautifulI loved her for that she was beautiful;And that to me she seem'd to be all Nature,And all varieties of things in one:Would set at night in clouds of tears, and riseAll light and laughter in the morning; fearNo petty customs nor appearances;But think what others only dream'd about;And say what others did but think; and doWhat others dared not do: so pure withalIn soul; in heart and act such conscious yetSuch perfect innocence, she made round herA halo of delight. 'Twas these which won me;—And that she never school'd within her breastOne thought or feeling, but gave holidayTo all; and that she made all even mineIn the communion of love: and weGrew like each other, for we loved each other;She, mild and generous as the air in spring;And I, like earth all budding out with love.I Am Not Yours

I am not yours, not lost in you,Not lost, although I long to beLost as a candle lit at noon,Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you stillA spirit beautiful and bright,Yet I am I, who long to beLost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love, put outMy senses, leave me deaf and blind,Swept by the tempest of your love,A taper in a rushing wind.

Valentine's day poem

Monsignore,Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,I respectfully salute you,I genuflectAnd I kiss your episcopal ring. It is not, Monsignore,The fragrant memory of your holy life,Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,Which causes me now to address you.But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,It seems appropriate to me to stateAccording to a venerable and agreeable custom,That I love a beautiful lady.Her eyes, Monsignore,Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflectionsOn everything that she looks at,Such as a wallOr the moonOr my heart.It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,Yet not quite like it,For the blueness is not transparent,Only translucent.Her soul's light shines through,But her soul cannot be seen.It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wiseAnd noble.She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,Made in the manner of the Japanese.It is very blue-I think that her eyes have made it more blue,Sweetly staining itAs the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.Loving her, Monsignore,I love all her attributes;But I believeThat even if I did not love herI would love the blueness of her eyes,And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese. Monsignore,I have never before troubled you with a request.The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleasare the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,And your brother bishop, my patron,The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,Do me this favour:When you this morning make your wayTo the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with rosesbecause of her who sits upon it,When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,I beg you, say to her:"Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to youFor wearing a blue gown".