Love poems
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God of Mercy, God of Grace (Psalm 67)
© Henry Francis Lyte
God of mercy, God of grace,Show the brightness of Thy face:Shine upon us, Saviour, shine,Fill Thy church with light Divine;And Thy saving health extend,Unto earth's remotest end.
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
© John Lyly
Cupid and my Campaspe play'dAt cards for kisses--Cupid paid:He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on's cheek (but none knows how);With these, the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple of his chin:All these did my Campaspe win
The Testament of John Lydgate
© John Lydgate
Beholde, o man! lyft up thyn eye and see What mortall peyne I suffre for thi trespace
Like to the Clear in Highest Sphere
© Thomas Lodge
Like to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hair,Whether unfolded or in twines: Heigh ho, fair Rosalind
The Sonnets of Ishtar
© Lodge George Cabot
I am the world's imperishable desire;Life is because I will, for hope of meLife is, nor all the dark depths of the seaCould quench mine eyes' light nor my body's fire
Old Friends
© Linton William James
The old old friends!Some changed; some buried; some gone out of sight;Some enemies, and in this world's swift fight No time to make amends.
When I Read Shakespeare --
© David Herbert Lawrence
When I read Shakespeare I am struck with wonderthat such trivial people should muse and thunderin such lovely language.
Cruelty and Love / Love on the Farm
© David Herbert Lawrence
Version 1 (1913)1.2Lifted, grasping the golden light1.3Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves1.4 To my heart's delight?
The Ahkoond of Swat
© Lanigan George Thomas
What, what, what,What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news,Comes by the cable ledThrough the Indian Ocean's bed,Through the Persian Gulf, the RedSea and the Med-Iterranean--he's dead;The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn
Piers Plowman: The Prologue
© William Langland
In a somer sesun, whon softe was the sonne,I schop me into a shroud, as I a scheep were;In habite as an hermite unholy of werkesWente I wyde in this world wondres to here;Bote in a Mayes morwnynge on Malverne hullesMe bifel a ferly, of fairie, me-thoughte
Zimbabwe
© Andrew Lang
INTO the darkness whence they came, They passed -- their country knoweth none,They and their gods without a name Partake the same oblivion
Off my Game
© Andrew Lang
'I'M off my game,' the golfer said, And shook his locks in woe;'My putter never lays me dead, My drives will never go;Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand, Results are still the same,I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand -- I'm off my game!
'Oh, would that such mishaps might fall On Laidlay or Macfie,That they might toe or heel the ball, And sclaff along like me!Men hurry from me in the street, And execrate my name,Old partners shun me when we meet -- I'm off my game!
'Why is it that I play at all? Let memory remind meHow once I smote upon my ball, And bunkered it -- behind me
Of his Lady's Old Age
© Andrew Lang
When you are very old, at evening You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, "Ah well, ah well-a-day!When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing
Les Roses de Sâdi
© Andrew Lang
This morning I vowed I would bring thee my roses,They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses;But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free.
The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond
© Andrew Lang
THERE's an ending o' the dance, and fair Morag's safe in France,And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,Free o' Carlisle gaol in the dawing.
Fæsulan Idyl
© Walter Savage Landor
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light boundInto hot Summer's lusty arms expires;And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,And softer sighs, that know not what they want;Under a wall, beneath an orange-treeWhose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier onesOf sights in Fiesole right up above,While I was gazing a few paces offAt what they seemed to show me with their nods,Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,A gentle maid came down the garden-stepsAnd gathered the pure treasure in her lap
Acon and Rhodope; or, Inconstancy
© Walter Savage Landor
The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by,Of measured pace tho' varying mien all twelve,Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'dFor festival, some reckless of attire
