Love poems
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Two Minds
© Sara Teasdale
Your mind and mine are such great lovers they
Have freed themselves from cautious human clay,
Love Elegy, to Laura
© Amelia Opie
Too heedless friend, why thus augment the flame
That glows resistless in my beating breast?
Why with thy praises grace his fatal name,
Who robs thy Emma's hapless heart of rest?
Deniehys Lament
© Henry Kendall
SPIRIT of Loveliness! Heart of my heart!
Flying so far from me, Heart of my heart!
Above the eastern hill, I know the red leaves thrill,
But thou art distant still, Heart of my heart!
Quatrains
© Harriet Monroe
I
Give to brave deeds emblazoned shrines
Where reverent memories may throng.
For them Art draws her perfect lines
In stone, in color, and in song.
The Mirror Of Diana
© Mathilde Blind
Mild as a metaphor of Sleep,
Immaculately maiden-white,
The Queen Moon of ancestral night
Beholds her image in the deep:
As if a-gaze she beams above
Lake Nemi's magic glass of love.
Most Sweet it is
© William Wordsworth
. Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none,
A Thanksgiving For F. D. Maurice
© George MacDonald
The veil hath lifted and hath fallen; and him
Who next it stood before us, first so long,
We see not; but between the cherubim
The light burns clearer: come-a thankful song!
The Two Loves
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Smoothing soft the nestling head
Of a maiden fancy-led,
Thus a grave-eyed woman said:
Eighteenth Sunday After Trinity
© John Keble
It is so-ope thine eyes, and see -
What viewest thou all around?
A desert, where iniquity
And knowledge both abound.
The Moors
© Edith Nesbit
NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only
Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells,
To James Bromley With "Wordsworth's Grave"
© William Watson
Ere vandal lords with lust of gold accurst
Deface each hallowed hillside we revere--
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part I: To Manon: XX
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
ON FALLING ILL THROUGH GRIEF
Truce to thee, Soul! I have a debt to pay,
Which I acknowledge and without thy pleading.
I like thee little that thou barrest my way
In the Wings
© Bliss William Carman
THE play is Life; and this round earth
The narrow stage whereon
We act before an audience
Of actors dead and gone.
Written In Germany On One Of The Coldest Days Of The Century
© William Wordsworth
A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse!
Let me have the song of the kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
Poor Patriarch by Susie Patlove : American Life in Poetry #245 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2
© Ted Kooser
I love the way the following poem by Susie Patlove opens, with the little rooster trying to “be what he feels he must be.” This poet lives in Massachusetts, in a community called Windy Hill, which must be a very good place for chickens, too.
Poor Patriarch
The rooster pushes his head
A Good Night
© Francis Quarles
Close now thine eyes and rest secure;
Thy soul is safe enough, thy body sure;
Olney Hymn 18: Lovest Thou Me?
© William Cowper
Hark my soul! it is the Lord;
'Tis Thy Saviour, hear His word;
Jesus speaks and speaks to thee,
"Say poor sinner, lovst thou me?
