Love poems
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A Winter Song
© Jean Ingelow
Came the dread Archer up yonder lawn —
Night is the time for the old to die —
But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn,
When the hind that was sick unscathed went by.
The Common Women Poems, II. Ella, in a square apron, along Highway 80
© Judy Grahn
She’s a copperheaded waitress,
tired and sharp-worded, she hides
The Flurry
© Sharon Olds
When we talk about when to tell the kids,
we are so together, so concentrated.
Prodigy
© Charles Simic
It was a small house
near a Roman graveyard.
Planes and tanks
shook its windowpanes.
['Joy of my life, full oft for loving you']
© Edmund Spenser
Joy of my life, full oft for loving you
I bless my lot, that was so lucky placed:
The Nineteenth Century as a Song
© Robert Hass
It was a warm day.
What clouds there were
were made of sugar tinged with blood.
They shed, faintly, amid the clatter of carriages
new settings of the songs
Moravian virgins sang on wedding days.
Song of Three Smiles
© William Stanley Merwin
Let me call a ghost,
Love, so it be little:
In December we took
No thought for the weather.
The Consolations of Sociobiology
© Bill Knott
(to JK)
Those scars rooted me. Stigmata stalagmite
I sat at a drive-in and watched the stars
Through a straw while the Coke in my lap went
Waterier and waterier. For days on end or
The Sundays of Satin-Legs Smith
© Gwendolyn Brooks
He wakes, unwinds, elaborately: a cat
Tawny, reluctant, royal. He is fat
And fine this morning. Definite. Reimbursed.
The Dream of a Lover
© Pierre Reverdy
Benedicite! whate dreamed I this nyght?
Methought the worlde was turnyd up so downe
The Southern Refugee
© George Moses Horton
What sudden ill the world await,
From my dear residence I roam;
Anniversary
© Cecilia Woloch
Didn’t I stand there once,
white-knuckled, gripping the just-lit taper,
Romans in Dorset: A.D. MDCCCXCV
© Louise Imogen Guiney
A stupor on the heath,
And wrath along the sky;
Space everywhere; beneath
A flat and treeless wold for us, and darkest noon on high.
A Prayer for My Daughter
© William Butler Yeats
Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
Helen: A Revision
© Jack Spicer
And if he dies on this road throw wild blackberries at his ghost
And if he doesn't, and he won't, hope the cost
Hope the cost.
Obsessive
© Marvin Bell
It could be a clip, it could be a comb;
it could be your mother, coming home.
It could be a rooster; perhaps it’s a comb;
it could be your father, coming home.
It could be a paper; it could be a pin.
It could be your childhood, sinking in.
Music when Soft Voices Die (To --)
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Ælla, a Tragical Interlude
© Thomas Chatterton
The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte;
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe;
The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte,
Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys broughte.
A Song
© Helen Maria Williams
No riches from his scanty store
My lover could impart;
He gave a boon I valued more
He gave me all his heart!
