Beauty poems
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The Perfume
© John Donne
Once, and but once found in thy company,All thy suppos'd escapes are laid on me;And as a thief at bar is question'd thereBy all the men that have been robb'd that year,So am I, (by this traitorous means surpriz'd)By thy hydroptic father catechiz'd
On His Mistress
© John Donne
By our first strange and fatal interview,By all desires which thereof did ensue,By our long starving hopes, by that remorseWhich my words masculine persuasive forceBegot in thee, and by the memoryOf hurts, which spies and rivals threaten'd me,I calmly beg
Love's Progress
© John Donne
Whoever loves, if he do not proposeThe right true end of love, he's one that goesTo sea for nothing but to make him sick
The Fever
© John Donne
Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone,That thee I shall not celebrate, When I remember thou was one.
The Comparison
© John Donne
As the sweet sweat of roses in a still,As that which from chaf'd musk cat's pores doth trill,As the almighty balm of th' early east,Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast;And on her neck her skin such lustre sets,They seem no sweat drops, but pearl carcanets
The Autumnal
© John Donne
No spring, nor summer beauty hath such graceAs I have seen in one autumnal face;Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape;This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape
The Anagram
© John Donne
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for sheHath all things, whereby others beauteous be;For, though her eyes be small, her mouth is great;Though they be ivory, yet her teeth be jet;Though they be dim, yet she is light enough;And though her harsh hair fall, her skin is tough;What though her cheeks be yellow, her hair's red,Give her thine, and she hath a maidenhead
A Song of the Bar
© Dolben Digby (Mackworth)
She is only an innkeeper's daughter -- I know it, I own it with tears,And her eyes are accustomed to slaughter The ranks of the Builth volunteers.
Cooper's Hill (1655)
© Sir John Denham
Sure there are poets which did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, we therefore may supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
Cooper's Hill (1642)
© Sir John Denham
Sure we have poets that did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, and therefore I supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
A Ballad of a Nun
© John Davidson
From Eastertide to Eastertide For ten long years her patient kneesEngraved the stones--the fittest bride Of Christ in all the diocese.
Delia XXXI (1623 version)
© Samuel Daniel
Look, Delia, how w' esteem the half-blown rose,The image of thy blush and summer's honour,Whilst yet her tender bud doth undiscloseThat full of beauty Time bestows upon her
Delia XXXI (1592 version)
© Samuel Daniel
Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose,The image of thy blush and summer's honour,Whilst in her tender green she doth encloseThat pure sweet beauty time bestows upon her
Delia XLVI
© Samuel Daniel
Let others sing of knights and paladinesIn aged accents and untimely words;Paint shadows in imaginary linesWhich well the reach of their high wits records:But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come,When yet th' unborn shall say, "Lo where she liesWhose beauty made him speak that else was dumb
Delia VI
© Samuel Daniel
Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair:Her brow shades frowns although her eyes are sunny,Her smiles are lightning though her pride despair,And her disdains are gall, her favours honey;A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour,Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love,The wonder of all eyes that look upon her:Sacred on earth, design'd a saint above
The Husband’s and Wife’s Grave
© Dana Richard Henry
Husband and wife! No converse now ye hold,As once ye did in your young days of love,On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays,Its silent meditations, its glad hopes,Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies;Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and blissFull, certain, and possessed
The Dying Raven
© Dana Richard Henry
Come to these lonely woods to die alone?It seems not many days since thou wast heard,From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,Calling upon thy mates -- and their clear answers
A Bat Unveiled
© Currin Jen
In the museum of land mines,my acquaintance fans her wings.Outside the sparrows catch fire.A tree falls to its knees.I become the sudden murderer,unable to recognize the radishesof my hands.
I have been a Foster
© Daniel Cooper
I have been a foster Long and many a day.Foster will I be no more-- No longer shoot I may. Yet have I been a foster.
