Romantic Love

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me.

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

Thou wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine— A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome.

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

“Guess now who holds thee?”—“Death,” I said. But there The silver answer rang—“Not Death, but Love.”

Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good fame, Plans, credit and the Muse, Nothing refuse.

She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!

Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose, Blendeth its odour with the violet,— Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes’ moon hath set.

A virgin purest lipp’d, yet in the lore Of love deep learned to the red heart’s core.

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright.

Familiar acts are beautiful through love.

In her first passion woman loves her lover, In all the others, all she loves is love.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Had sigh’d to many, though he loved but one.

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!

“Friendship is Love without his wings!”

The light that lies In woman’s eyes, Has been my heart’s undoing.

But there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away, Thou would’st still be ador’d as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

Flowers are lovely; love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.