Love poems
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To Laura At The Harpsichord
© Johann Christoph Friedrich Von Schiller
When o'er the chords thy fingers stray,
My spirit leaves its mortal clay,
A statue there I stand;
Thy spell controls e'en life and death,
As when the nerves a living breath
Receive by Love's command! [1]
The Wife Of Asdrubal
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams,
Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood streams;
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest;
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high,
Then deep 'midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.
The Lambs on the Boulder
© James Wright
I hear that the Commune di Padova has an exhibition of master-
pieces from Giotto to Mantegna. Giotto is the master of angels, and
The Year's End
© Roderic Quinn
THE voices of the wind and wave
They sigh the Old Year's requiem;
The dead are calling from the grave
Good friends, a little space I crave
Ibn Kolthum
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Ha! The bowl! Fill it high, a fair morning wine--cup!
Leave we naught of the lees of Andarína.
Rise, pour forth, be it mixed, let it foam like saffron!
tempered thus will we drink it, ay, free--handed.
Stellas Birth-Day.1719-20
© Jonathan Swift
All travellers at first incline
Where'er they see the fairest sign
The White Snow
© Guillaume Apollinaire
The angels the angels in the sky
Ones dressed as an officer
Ones dressed as a chef today
And the others sing
A Racing Eight
© James Lister Cuthbertson
WHO knows it not, who loves it not,
The long and steady swing,
The Chalice of Circe
© Muriel Stuart
DRINK of our Cup-of the red wine that burns in it,
All the wild shames that have crusted its mouth,
Passion that twists in it, Madness that churns in it,
Fever that yearns in it, Folly that turns in it,
Drink of our Cup! It is Love, it is Youth!
Ode VI: To William Hall, Esquire: With The Works Of Chaulieu
© Mark Akenside
I.
Attend to Chaulieu's wanton lyre;
Mountain Pictures
© John Greenleaf Whittier
I. FRANCONIA FROM THE PEMIGEWASSET
Once more, O Mountains of the North, unveil
'Tis moonlight
© Emily Jane Brontë
'TIS moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,
Lemnos Revisited
© Leon Gellert
Lemnos! Lemnos! Thine enfolding arms
Have held too much, they patterned hills are over shorn
First Sunday After Christmas
© John Keble
'Tis true, of old the unchanging sun
His daily course refused to run,
The pale moon hurrying to the west
Paused at a mortal's call, to aid
The avenging storm of war, that laid
Seven guilty realms at once on earth's defiled breast.
An Ode - Presented To The King, On His Majesty's Arrival In Holland, After The Queen's Death
© Matthew Prior
At Mary's tomb (sad sacred place!)
The Virtues shall their vigils keep,
And every Muse and every Grace
In solemn state shall ever weep.
The Task: Book III. -- The Garden
© William Cowper
As one who, long in thickets and in brakes
Entangled, winds now this way and now that
O Never Say That I Was False of Heart
© William Shakespeare
O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie;
Allurement
© Madison Julius Cawein
Across the world she sends me word,
From gardens fair as Falerina's,
Now by a blossom, now a bird,
To come to her, who long has lured
With magic sweeter than Alcina's.
The Aged Lover Renounceth Love
© Thomas Vaux
. I loathe that I did love,
In youth that I thought sweet;
Francis Parkman
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
HE rests from toil; the portals of the tomb
Close on the last of those unwearying hands
That wove their pictured webs in History's loom,
Rich with the memories of three distant lands.
