Love poems
/ page 341 of 1285 /
The Pilgrim
© Adam Mickiewicz
A rich and lovely country wide unrolled,
A fair face by me, heavens where white clouds sail,
A Love Letter
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
OH, I des received a letter f'om de sweetest little gal;
Oh, my; oh, my.
Daphne's Visit
© William Shenstone
Ye birds! for whom I rear'd the grove,
With melting lay salute my love;
My Daphne with your notes detain,
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.
The Gascon Punished
© Jean de La Fontaine
THE dame, indeed, the Gascon only jeered,
And e'er denied herself when he appeared;
But when she met the wight, who sought to shine;
And called her angel, beauteous and divine,
She fled and hastened to a female friend,
Where she could laugh, and at her ease unbend.
Second Sunday In Advent
© John Keble
Not till the freezing blast is still,
Till freely leaps the sparkling rill,
Thou Shalt Not Kill
© Kenneth Rexroth
Harry who didnt care at all?
Hart who went back to the sea?
Timor mortis conturbat me.
The Sea-Swallows
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
THIS FELL when Christmas lights were done,
Red rose leaves will never make wine;
But before the Easter lights begun;
The ways are sair fra the Till to the Tyne.
The Mothers Heart
© Caroline Norton
Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;
Nor injured either, by this love's comparing,
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call--
But in the Mother's heart, found room for ALL!
The Teacher Of Wisdom
© Oscar Wilde
From his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfect
knowledge of God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of the
saints, as well as certain holy women who dwelt in the free city of
his birth, had been stirred to much wonder by the grave wisdom of
his answers.
Painting by Vuillard
© Thom Gunn
Two dumpy women with buns were drinking coffee
In a narrow kitchenat least I think a kitchen
The Sailor
© Samuel Rogers
The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more,
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid.
Better Things
© George MacDonald
Better to smell the violet
Than sip the glowing wine;
Better to hearken to a brook
Than watch a diamond shine.
Anglers Fireside Song
© Henry Van Dyke
Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way,
And his road through the world is bright;
Piers Plowman The Prologue (B-Text)
© William Langland
In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonn{.e},
I schop me into a shroud, as I a scheep wer{.e};
In habite as an hermite unholy of werk{.e}s
Wente I wyde in this world wondr{.e}s to her{.e};
Bote in a May{.e}s morwnynge on Malverne hull{.e}s
Me bifel a ferly, of fairie, me-thought{.e}.
Mark Twain
© Edgar Albert Guest
MARK TWAIN is dead! No, no, that cannot be,
Say rather Clemens knows life's mystery,
Say rather Clemens has been called above,
But Twain still lives for all the world to love.
