For works with similar titles, see Love.
LOVE.
THE breeze lightly waveth
The lily so fair,
Amidst the sweet petals
The bee batheth there;
He will not, he will not,
Away further flit—
What hold those sweet petals
For food ever fit?
The youth fond embracing
Enfoldeth his prize,
Eye and soul ever bathing
Themselves in her eyes;
He will not, he will not,
Depart further on,—
O tell me what honey
Her lips dwells upon?
O seek but the kisses
Of love in your home;
In heav’n there’s abundance
Of that sweet honeycomb;
There ever o’erfloweth
The beaker of love,
With drops ever streaming
Towards earth from above.