Love poems
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The Wold Wall
© William Barnes
Here, Jeäne, we vu'st did meet below
The leafy boughs, a-swingèn slow,
R.s.v.p.
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Phyllis, I've a keg of fine fermented grape juice,
Alban wine that's been nine years in the cellar.
Ivy chaplets? Sure. Also, in the garden,
Plenty of parsley.
To A Jar Of Wine
© Eugene Field
How dost thou melt the stoniest hearts,
And bare the cruel knave's design;
How through thy fascinating arts
We discount Hope, O gracious wine!
And passing rich the poor man feels
As through his veins thy affluence steals.
Indifference
© Madison Julius Cawein
She is so dear the wildflowers near
Each path she passes by,
Are over fain to kiss again
Her feet and then to die.
Poem from a Picture
© Margaret Widdemer
(Children at play on a French Battlefield)
"When I was a child,"
Punishment
© George MacDonald
Mourner, that dost deserve thy mournfulness,
Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell;
Say, "God is angry, and I earned it well-
I would not have him smile on wickedness:"
His Lady Of The Sonnets V
© Robert Norwood
Mute and amazed, I at the broken wall
Lean fearful, lest the sudden, dreadful dawn
For me Diana's awful doom let fall;
And I be cursed with curious Actæon,
Save that you find in me this strong defence
My adoration of your innocence.
Tribute To The Memory Of The Same Dog
© William Wordsworth
LIE here, without a record of thy worth,
Beneath a covering of the common earth!
It is not from unwillingness to praise,
Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;
Additions: The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's
© Thomas Hardy
She cried, "O pray pity me!" Nought would he hear;
Then with wild rainy eyes she obeyed,
She chid when her Love was for clinking off wi' her.
The pa'son was told, as the season drew near
To throw over pu'pit the names of the peäir
As fitting one flesh to be made.
A Scrawl
© James Whitcomb Riley
I want to sing something-- but this is all--
I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull
As though they were damp, and the echoes fall
Limp and unlovable.
Song, In Imitation Of Shakspeare's "Blow, blow, thou winter wind"
© James Beattie
Blow, blow, thou vernal gale!
Thy balm will not avail
To ease my aching breast;
Though thou the billows smooth,
Thy murmurs cannot soothe
My weary soul to rest.
Epitaph On A Beloved Friend
© George Gordon Byron
Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re'echo'd to thy parting breath,
Wilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
To A Cold Beauty
© Thomas Hood
Lady, wouldst thou heiress be
To Winters cold and cruel part?
When he sets the rivers free,
Thou dost still lock up thy heart;
This Southern Land of Ours
© Charles Harpur
With alien hearts to frame our laws
And cheat us as of old,
In The Cup
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
There is grief in the cup!
I saw a proud mother set wine on the board;
A Song (#2)
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
THOU art the soul of a summer's day,
Thou art the breath of the rose.
