Love poems
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from Figs and Thistles: First Fig
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!
In Love, His Grammar Grew
© Stephen Dunn
In love, his grammar grew
rich with intensifiers, and adverbs fell
A Shropshire Lad LIII: The lad came to the door at night
© Alfred Edward Housman
The lad came to the door at night,
When lovers crown their vows,
And whistled soft and out of sight
In shadow of the boughs.
Lincoln, Man of the People
© Edwin Markham
When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
Skin Cancer
© Mark Jarman
Balmy overcast nights of late September;
Palms standing out in street light, house light;
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College
© Thomas Gray
Ye distant spires, ye antique tow'rs,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
A Prospect of Heaven Makes Death Easy
© Isaac Watts
There is a land of pure delight
Where saints immortal reign;
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.
Workshop
© Billy Collins
I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.
Your Night Is of Lilac
© Mahmoud Darwish
The night sits wherever you are. Your night
is of lilac. Every now and then a gesture escapes
Amoretti LXX: Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king
© Edmund Spenser
Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote armour richly are displayed
Canicule Macaronique
© John Fuller
Heureux ceux qui ont la clim—Corse-Matin (6.8.94)
Heureux ceux qui ont la clim
Pendant la grande canicule.
Heureux those whose culs are cool.
Heureuse her and heureux him.
Étude Réaliste
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
(excerpt)
I
A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink,
Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
An angel's lips to kiss, we think,
A baby's feet.
Innocents We
© Paul Verlaine
Their long skirts and high heels battled away:
Depending on the ground’s and breezes’ whim,
Jordan (I)
© George Herbert
Who says that fictions only and false hair
Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty?
Is all good structure in a winding stair?
May no lines pass, except they do their duty
Not to a true, but painted chair?
To J. S.
© Alfred Tennyson
The wind, that beats the mountain, blows
More softly round the open wold,
And gently comes the world to those
That are cast in gentle mould.
It was a' for our Rightful King
© Robert Burns
It was a' for our rightful king
That we left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightful king
We e'er saw Irish land,
My dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.
Surprised by Joy
© André Breton
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
