Love poems
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The Mockery of Life
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
God! What a mockery is this life of ours!Cast forth in blood and pain from our mother's womb,Most like an excrement, and weeping showersOf senseless tears: unreasoning, naked, dumb,The symbol of all weakness and the sum:Our very life a sufferance
The Grave
© Jean Blewett
O the grave is a quiet place, my dear, So still and so quiet by night and by day,Reached by no sound either joyous or drear, But keeping its silence alway, alway.
All Love Asks
© Jean Blewett
All Love asks is a heart to stay in;A brave, true heart to be glad and gay in;A garden of tender thoughts to play in;A faith unswerving through cold or heatTill the heart where Love lodges forgets to beat
Oh, Dem Golden Slippers!
© Bland James A.
Oh, my golden slippers am laid away,Kase I don't 'spect to wear 'em till my weddin' day,And my long-tail'd coat, dat I loved so well,I will wear up in de chariot in de morn;And my long, white robe dat I bought last June,I'm gwine to get changed kase it fits too soon,And de ole grew hoss dat I used to drive,I will hitch him up to de chariot in de morn
Carry Me Back to Old Virginny
© Bland James A.
Carry me back to old Virginny,There's where the cotton and the corn and tatoes grow,There's where the birds warble sweet in the spring-time,There's where the old darkey's heart am long'd to go,There's where I labored so hard for old massa,Day after day in the field of yellow corn,No place on earth do I love more sincerelyThan old Virginny, the state where I was born
America: A Prophecy
© William Blake
The shadowy Daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc,When fourteen suns had faintly journey'd o'er his dark abode:His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron:Crown'd with a helmet and dark hair the nameless female stood;A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night,When pestilence is shot from heaven: no other arms she need!Invulnerable though naked, save where clouds roll round her loinsTheir awful folds in the dark air: silent she stood as night;For never from her iron tongue could voice or sound arise,But dumb till that dread day when Orc assay'd his fierce embrace
The Vowels
© Bithell Jethro
Ye vowels, A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue,I will reveal your latent births one of these days
Sensation
© Bithell Jethro
In summer evenings blue, pricked by the wheatOn rustic paths the thin grass I shall tread,And feel its freshness underneath my feet,And, dreaming, let the wind bathe my bare head.
Brazil, January 1, 1502
© Elizabeth Bishop
Januaries, nature greets our eyesexactly as she must have greeted theirs:every square inch filling in with foliage--big leaves, little leaves, and giant leaves,blue, blue-green, and olive,with occasional lighter veins and edges,or a satin underleaf turned over;monster fernsin silver-gray relief,and flowers, too, like giant water liliesup in the air--up, rather, in the leaves--purple, yellow, two yellows, pink,rust red and greenish white;solid but airy; fresh as if just finishedand taken off the frame
Herrick's Julia
© Bevington Helen
Whenas in perfume Julia went,Then, then, how sweet was the intentOf that inexorable scent.
Indoor Games near Newbury
© John Betjeman
In among the silver birches winding ways of tarmac wander And the signs to Bussock Bottom, Tussock Wood and Windy Brake,Gabled lodges, tile-hung churches, catch the lights of our Lagonda As we drive to Wendy's party, lemon curd and Christmas cake
An Incident in the Early Life of Ebenezer Jones, Poet, 1828
© John Betjeman
"We were together at a well-known boarding-school of that day (1828), situated at the foot of Highgate Hill, and presided over by a dissenting minister, the Rev
The Sparrow
© Benson Arthur Christopher
O pertest, most self-satisfied Of aught that breathes or moves,See where you sit, with head aside, To chirp your vulgar loves:Or raking in the uncleanly street You bolt your ugly meal,Undaunted by the approaching feet, The heedless splashing wheel
On a Sleeping Friend
© Hilaire Belloc
Lady, when your lovely headDroops to sink among the Dead,And the quiet places keepYou that so divinely sleep;Then the dead shall blessèd beWith a new solemnity,For such Beauty, so descending,Pledges them that Death is ending
On a Dead Hostess
© Hilaire Belloc
Of this bad world the loveliest and the bestHas smiled and said "Good Night," and gone to rest.
Fatigued
© Hilaire Belloc
I'm tired of Love: I'm still more tired of Rhyme.But Money gives me pleasure all the time.
Nonsense
© Bell Julian Heward
Sing a song of sixpence,A pocketful of rye,The lover's in the gardenAnd battle's in the sky.The banker's in the cityGetting off his gold;Oh isn't it a pityThe rye can't be sold.
London I
© Bell Julian Heward
The melancholy verse Sings to the waterfall; Wring writing harsh and worse, The jarring beauties fall.
