Love poems
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Faringdon Hill. Book I
© Henry James Pye
What various objects scatter'd round us lie,
And charm on every side the curious eye!
Amidst such ample stores, how shall the Muse
Know where to turn her sight, and which to choose?
The Virgin Mother
© David Herbert Lawrence
My little love, my darling,
You were a doorway to me;
You let me out of the confines
Into this strange countrie,
Where people are crowded like thistles,
Yet are shapely and comely to see.
Last Words to Miriam
© David Herbert Lawrence
Yours is the shame and sorrow,
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
He creates with his shine.
Genius And Love
© Frances Anne Kemble
Genius and Love together stood
At break of day beside clear fountains,
Confessions
© Kathleen Raine
Wanting to know all
I overlooked each particle
Containing the whole
Unknowable.
Dreams Old
© David Herbert Lawrence
I have opened the window to warm my hands on the sill
Where the sunlight soaks in the stone: the afternoon
Is full of dreams, my love, the boys are all still
In a wistful dream of Lorna Doone.
Mating
© David Herbert Lawrence
Round clouds roll in the arms of the wind,
The round earth rolls in a clasp of blue sky,
And see, where the budding hazels are thinned,
The wild anemones lie
In undulating shivers beneath the wind.
To Lesbia
© George Gordon Byron
Lesbia! since far from you I've ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed,
I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not.
Troth with the Dead
© David Herbert Lawrence
The moon is broken in twain, and half a moon
Before me lies on the still, pale floor of the sky;
The other half of the broken coin of troth
Is buried away in the dark, where the still dead lie.
The Seekers
© John Masefield
Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed abode,
But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road.
Craving for Spring
© David Herbert Lawrence
I trample on the snowdrops, it gives me pleasure to tread down the jonquils,
to destroy the chill Lent lilies;
for I am sick of them, their faint-bloodedness,
slow-blooded, icy-fleshed, portentous.
The Punisher
© David Herbert Lawrence
I have fetched the tears up out of the little wells,
Scooped them up with small, iron words,
Dripping over the runnels.
Scent of Irises
© David Herbert Lawrence
A faint, sickening scent of irises
Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table
A fine proud spike of purple irises
Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable
To see the classs lifted and bended faces
Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and sable.
Ballad of Another Ophelia
© David Herbert Lawrence
Oh the green glimmer of apples in the orchard,
Lamps in a wash of rain!
Oh the wet walk of my brown hen through the stackyard,
Oh tears on the window pane!
The Artist
© William Henry Ogilvie
He stands at no easel, he mixes no paint,
He colours no canvas to gladden the eye,
Song. Cold, Cold Is The Blast When December Is Howling
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling,
Cold are the damps on a dying man's brow,--
Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling,
And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low;
The Revolutionary
© David Herbert Lawrence
Look at them standing there in authority
The pale-faces,
As if it could have any effect any more.
They Loved One Another
© Caroline Norton
THEY loved one another! young Edward and his wife,
And in their cottage-home they dwelt, apart from sin and strife.
The Wild Common
© David Herbert Lawrence
The quick sparks on the gorse bushes are leaping,
Little jets of sunlight-texture imitating flame;
Above them, exultant, the peewits are sweeping:
They are lords of the desolate wastes of sadness their screamings proclaim.
