Love poems

/ page 49 of 1285 /

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The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne

© Gelett Burgess

WAKE! For the Hack can scatter into flightShakespere and Dante in a single Night! The Penny-a-liner is Abroad, and strikesOur Modern Literature with blithering Blight.

The Bishop Orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church Rome, 15--

© Robert Browning

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?Nephews--sons mine

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXVIII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

First time he kissed me, he but only kissedThe fingers of this hand wherewith I write;And ever since, it grew more clean and white,Slow to world-greetings, quick with its

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXVII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should makeOf all that strong divineness which I knowFor thine and thee, an image only soFormed of the sand, and fit to shift and break

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXVI

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

When we met first and loved, I did not buildUpon the event with marble

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXV

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchangeAnd be all to me? Shall I never missHome-talk and blessing and the common kissThat comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,When I look up, to drop on a new rangeOf walls and floors, another home than this?Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which isFilled by dead eyes too tender to know change?That's hardest

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXIX

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Because thou hast the power and own'st the graceTo look through and behind this mask of me(Against which, years have beat thus blanchinglyWith their rains,) and behold my soul's true face,The dim and weary witness of life's race,-Because thou hast the faith and love to see,Through that same soul's distracting lethargy,The patient angel waiting for a placeIn the new Heavens,-because nor sin nor woe,Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbourhood,Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,-Nothing repels thee,

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXIII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hearThe name I used to run at, when a child,From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled,To glance up in some face that proved me dearWith the look of its eyes

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXXII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The first time that the sun rose on thine oathTo love me, I looked forward to the moonTo slacken all those bonds which seemed too soonAnd quickly tied to make a lasting troth

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXX

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I see thine image through my tears to-night,And yet to-day I saw thee smiling

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXVIII

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!And yet they seem alive and quiveringAgainst my tremulous hands which loose the stringAnd let them drop down on my knee to-night

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXVII

My own Belovèd, who hast lifted meFrom this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blownA life-breath, till the forehead hopefullyShines out again, as all the angels see,Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,Who camest to me when the world was gone,And I who looked for only God, found thee!I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXIV

Let the world's sharpness like a clasping knifeShut in upon itself and do no harmIn this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,And let us hear no sound of human strifeAfter the click of the shutting

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXIII

Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?And would the sun for thee more coldly shineBecause of grave-damps falling round my head?I marvelled, my Belovèd, when I readThy thought so in the letter

Sonnets from the Portuguese: XXII

When our two souls stand up erect and strong,Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,Until the lengthening wings break into fireAt either curvèd point,-what bitter wrongCan the earth do to us, that we should not longBe here contented? Think! In mounting higher,The angels would press on us and aspireTo drop some golden orb of perfect songInto our deep, dear silence

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