Love poems
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Rita And The Rifle
© Mahmoud Darwish
Between Rita and my eyes
There is a rifle
And whoever knows Rita
Kneels and plays
We have a Little Garden
© Beatrix Potter
WE have a little garden,
A garden of our own,
And every day we water there
The seeds that we have sown.
A Lover From Palestine
© Mahmoud Darwish
Her eyes are Palestinian
Her name is Palestinian
Her dress and sorrow Palestinian
Her kerchief, her feet and body Palestinian
The Happy Husband
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Oft, oft, methinks, the while with thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated bame, I hear
A promise and a mystery,
A pledge of more than passing life,
Yea, in that very name of wife!
Passport
© Mahmoud Darwish
They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
On the Death of the Rev. Dr. Sewell
© Phillis Wheatley
Ere yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,
See Sewell number'd with the happy dead.
Hail, holy man, arriv'd th' immortal shore,
Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
Real Lessons
© Edgar Albert Guest
These are the lessons I would learn,
Not how to climb above all men,
Thoughts On The Works Of Providence
© Phillis Wheatley
A R I S E, my soul, on wings enraptur'd, rise
To praise the monarch of the earth and skies,
Whose goodness and benificence appear
As round its centre moves the rolling year,
Niobe in Distress
© Phillis Wheatley
Seven sprightly sons the royal bed adorn,
Seven daughters beauteous as the op'ning morn,
As when Aurora fills the ravish'd sight,
And decks the orient realms with rosy light
From their bright eyes the living splendors play,
Nor can beholders bear the flashing ray.
To The Honourable T. H. Esq; On the Death Of His Daughter
© Phillis Wheatley
WHILE deep you mourn beneath the cypress-shade
The hand of Death, and your dear daughter
laid
In dust, whose absence gives your tears to flow,
On The Death Of A Young Lady Of Five Years Of Age
© Phillis Wheatley
FROM dark abodes to fair etherial light
Th' enraptur'd innocent has wing'd her flight;
On the kind bosom of eternal love
She finds unknown beatitude above.
On The Death Of J. C. An Infant
© Phillis Wheatley
NO more the flow'ry scenes of pleasure rife,
Nor charming prospects greet the mental eyes,
No more with joy we view that lovely face
Smiling, disportive, flush'd with ev'ry grace.
To The Right Honourable William, Earl Of Dartmouth, His Majesty's Principal Secretary Of The State For North-America,
© Phillis Wheatley
HAIL, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
The northern clime beneath her genial ray,
Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway:
To The King's Most Excellent Majesty
© Phillis Wheatley
YOUR subjects hope, dread Sire--
The crown upon your brows may flourish long,
And that your arm may in your God be strong!
O may your sceptre num'rous nations sway,
To Mæcenas
© Phillis Wheatley
Mæcenas, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.
What felt those poets but you feel the same?
Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?
Their noble strains your equal genius shares
In softer language, and diviner airs.
A Funeral Poem on the Death of C.E.
© Phillis Wheatley
By thoughtless wishes, and prepost'rous love?
Doth his felicity increase your pain?
Or could you welcome to this world again
The heir of bliss? with a superior air
Methinks he answers with a smile severe,
"Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there."
The Harper
© James Whitcomb Riley
Like a drift of faded blossoms
Caught in a slanting rain,
His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp
In a tremulous refrain:
The Rival
© James Whitcomb Riley
I so loved once, when Death came by I hid
Away my face,
And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid
To make my hiding-place.
Ike Walton's Prayer
© James Whitcomb Riley
I crave, dear Lord,
No boundless hoard
Of gold and gear,
Nor jewels fine,
Unless
© James Whitcomb Riley
Who has not wanted, does not guess
What plenty is.--Who has not groped
In depths of doubt and hopelessness,
Has never truly hoped.--
