Love poems
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The Wedding Ring Dance
© Anne Sexton
I dance in circles holding
the moth of the marriage,
thin, sticky, fluttering
its skirts, its webs.
Standing On Tiptoe
© George Frederick Cameron
STANDING on tiptoe ever since my youth
Striving to grasp the future just above,
I hold at length the only futureTruth,
And Truth is Love.
A Wedding Song
© Jean Ingelow
And they said, “He is young, the lad we love,
The heir of the Isles is young:
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above,
Can neither be said nor sung.
Again and Again and Again
© Anne Sexton
You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
Goodbye My Lover
© Margaret Widdemer
All the flags stream abroad, and the crowds wave and cry
And I watch for your face in the long lines marching by;
For my lips bade you go, but my heart would bid you stay
Oh, lad, and will the war be long, and you so far away?
And your step as you marched, would it lag or fall more true
If you know that my heart's gone to war to follow you?
Our Sunday morning when dawn-priests were applying
© John Berryman
'Death is the mother of beauty.' Awry no leaf
Shivering with delight, we die to be well..
Careless with sleepy love, so long unloving.
What if our convalescence must be bried
As we are, the matin meet the passing bell?..
About our pines our sister, wind, is moving.
The Temptation
© Edith Nesbit
YOU bring your love too late, dear, I have no love to buy it,
I spent my love on worthless toys, at fairs you do not know;
I am a bankrupt trader--dear eyes, do not deny it,
I could have bought your love, dear, but that was long ago.
Natural History
© Sylvia Plath
That lofty monarch, Monarch Mind,
Blue-blooded in coarse contry reigned;
Though he bedded in ermine, gorged on roast,
Pure Philosophy his love engrossed:
While subjects hungered, empty-pursed,
With stars, with angels, he conversed
Appreciation
© George Meredith
Earth was not Earth before her sons appeared,
Nor Beauty Beauty ere young Love was born:
And One For My Dame
© Anne Sexton
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
Unknown Girl In A Maternity Ward
© Anne Sexton
Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, fisted like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed
Flee On Your Donkey
© Anne Sexton
Today an intern knocks my knees,
testing for reflexes.
Once I would have winked and begged for dope.
Today I am terribly patient.
Today crows play black-jack
on the stethoscope.
Upon His Majesty's Happy Return
© Edmund Waller
The rising sun complies with our weak sight,
First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light
At such a distance from our eyes, as though
He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.
On The Death Of A Friend's Child
© James Russell Lowell
Death never came so nigh to me before,
Nor showed me his mild face: oft had I mused
Doors, Doors, Doors
© Anne Sexton
Old man, it's four flights up and for what?
Your room is hardly bigger than your bed.
Puffing as you climb, you are a brown woodcut
stooped over the thin tail and the wornout tread.
End, Middle, Beginning
© Anne Sexton
At her birth
she did not cry,
spanked indeed,
but did not yell--
instead snow fell out of her mouth.
Rumpelstiltskin
© Anne Sexton
Inside many of us
is a small old man
who wants to get out.
No bigger than a two-year-old
The Twelve Dancing Princesses
© Anne Sexton
The paralytic's wife
who takes her love to town,
sitting on the bar stool,
downing stingers and peanuts,
singing "That ole Ace down in the hole,"
would understand.
