Love poems
/ page 360 of 1285 /
The Beautiful Stranger
© John Clare
I cannot know what country owns thee now,
With France's forest lilies on thy brow.
"So again we triumph!"
© Anna Akhmatova
So again we triumph!
Again we do not come!
Our speeches silent,
Our words, dumb.
Mark Antony
© John Cleveland
Whenas the nightingale chanted her vespers,
And the wild forester couched on the ground,
Going To The Horse Flats
© Robinson Jeffers
Sweet was the clear
Chatter of the stream now that our talk was hushed; the flitting
water-ouzel returned to her stone;
A lovely snake, two delicate scarlet lines down the dark back,
swam through the pool. The flood-battered
Trees by the stream are more noble than cathedral-columns.
Grass From The Battle-Field
© Sydney Thompson Dobell
Small sheaf
Of withered grass, that hast not yet revealed
Thy story, lo! I see thee once more green
And growing on the battle-field,
On that last day that ever thou didst grow!
The Garden
© John Newton
A Garden contemplation suits,
And may instruction yield,
Sweeter than all the flow'rs and fruits
With which the spot is filled.
Sister Songs-An Offering To Two Sisters - The Proem
© Francis Thompson
Shrewd winds and shrill--were these the speech of May?
A ragged, slag-grey sky--invested so,
The Master-Player
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
AN old worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Fragment Of An Epistle To Thomas Moore
© George Gordon Byron
The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey--
Mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Jersey,
Who lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted
With Majesty's presence as those she invited.
The Invitation to Selborne
© Gilbert White
See Selborne spreads her boldest beauties round
The varied valley, and the mountain ground,
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XII
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
She was a little woman dressed in black,
Who stood on tiptoe with a childish air,
Her face and figure hidden in a sacque,
All but her eyes and forehead and dark hair.
Le Grenier
© William Makepeace Thackeray
Je viens revoir l'asile ou ma jeunesse
De la misere a subi les lecons.
In New Orleans
© Eugene Field
'Twas in the Crescent City not long ago befell
The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell;
So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing
Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-
No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem
Of blowing twenty dollars in by nine o'clock a.m.
Crowds
© Charles Baudelaire
It is not given to every man to take a bath of multitude; enjoying a crowd is an art; and only he can relish a debauch of vitality at the expense of the human species, on whom, in his cradle, a fairy has bestowed the love of masks and masquerading, the hate of home, and the passion for roaming.
Multitude, solitude: identical terms, and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd.
Fand, A Feerie Act I
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Eithne's Spinning Song
Things of the Earth and things of the Air,
Strengths that we feel though we cannot share,
Shapes that are round us and everywhere.
The Pale Woman
© Arthur Symons
I spoke to the pale and heavy-lidded woman, and said:
O pale and heavy-lidded woman, why is your check
The Chameleon
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
I KNOW that I'm like, yet I am not, a snake!
'Tis true that I glisten by boil and by brake,
That I dart out and in, can glide, quiver and coil
As swift as the lightning, but softer than oil,
Yet a creature more innocent never was drawn
From the gray of cool shadows to bask in the dawn!
