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Love and Marriage Poems - 16

What Is Love? by Ernest Dowson

What is Love?
Is it a folly,
Is it mirth, or melancholy?
Joys above,
Are there many, or not any?
What is Love?

If you please,
A most sweet folly!
Full of mirth and melancholy:
Both of these!
In its sadness worth all gladness,
If you please!

Prithee where,
Goes Love a-hiding?
Is he long in his abiding
Anywhere?
Can you bind him when you find him;
Prithee, where?

With spring days
Love comes and dallies:
Upon the mountains, through the valleys
Lie Love's ways.
Then he leaves you and deceives you
In spring days.

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I Will Be Silent Soon...' by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

I will be silent soon! But if in days of mire
I ever answered was by thoughtful play of lyre;
But if the silent youths, who understood me right,
Were marveling to years of my poor love's infliction;
But, just, if you yourself, in sweetest disposition,
The stanza, doleful, was whispering at night
And liked the voice, with which my heart itself discovers,
But if, o Lord, I'm loved -- let me, my dear friend,
Oh let me animate my lyre at the end
By a sacred name of one who was the best of lovers!
When I'll forever fall into the deadly dream,
Above my dismal urn, say with a good intention:
I loved this poor man, and I had breathed in him
His song's and love's the latest inspiration.

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To Death by Robert Herrick

Thou bidst me come away,
And I'll no longer stay,
Than for to shed some tears
For faults of former years;
And to repent some crimes
Done in the present times;
And next, to take a bit
Of bread, and wine with it;
To don my robes of love,
Fit for the place above;
To gird my loins about
With charity throughout;
And so to travel hence
With feet of innocence;
These done, I'll only cry,
'God, mercy!' and so die.

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Young and Old by Charles Kingsley

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among;
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young.

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To the Willow Tree by Robert Herrick

Thou art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest
And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead
Or laid aside forlorn,
Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head,
Bedew'd with tears, are worn.

When with neglect, the lover's bane,
Poor maids rewarded be,
For their love lost their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid,
Come to weep out the night.

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