Love poems
/ page 724 of 1285 /The Cottager To Her Infant
© William Wordsworth
THE days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty Love!
Jolly Good Ale and Old
© William Stevenson
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
Intimations Of The Beautiful
© Madison Julius Cawein
The hills are full of prophecies
And ancient voices of the dead;
Of hidden shapes that no man sees,
Pale, visionary presences,
That speak the things no tongue hath said,
No mind hath thought, no eye hath read.
Sonnet LVII: Being your slave, what should I do but tend
© William Shakespeare
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
Oh Lovely Rock
© Robinson Jeffers
We stayed the night in the pathless gorge of Ventana Creek, up the east fork.
The rock walls and the mountain ridges hung forest on forest above our heads, maple and redwood,
Laurel, oak, madrone, up to the high and slender Santa Lucian firs that stare up the cataracts
Of slide-rock to the star-color precipices.
To a Young Lady, With Some Lampreys
© John Gay
With lovers, twas of old the fashion
By presents to convey their passion;
Love Sonnet XXVI
© Zora Bernice May Cross
Dearest, you had no answer. But your blood
Drawing from mine the primal fires of God,
Leapt, laughed, and shouted, panting into mine
Love
love is all; and sweeps in mighty flood
Minds, souls and bodies, from the nameless sod
Exultant to the feet of the Divine.
Alea Jacta
© Alfred Austin
Dearest, I know thee wise and good,
Beloved by all the best;
With fancy like Ithuriel's spear,
A judgment proof 'gainst rage or fear,
Heart firm through many a stormy year,
And conscience calm in rest.
Sonnet IX: Passion And Worship
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
One flame-winged brought a white-winged harp-player
Even where my lady and I lay all alone;
Christmas Tree
© Daniel Nester
This seablue fir that rode the mountain storm
Is swaddled here in splints of tin to die.
Sofas around in chubby velvet swarm;
Onlooking cabinets glitter with flat eye;
Here lacquer in the branches runs like rain
And resin of treasure starts from every vein.
Wild With All Regrets
© Wilfred Owen
Which I shan't manage now. Unless it's yours.
I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours.
You'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest,
And climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased
On sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.
Because of this Modest Style
© Ramon Lopez Velarde
May you be blessed, modest, magnificent;
you have possessed the highest summit of my heart,
you who are at once the artist
of lowly and most lofty things, who bear in your hands
my life as if it was your work of art!
Greatness
© Edgar Albert Guest
We can be great by helping one another;
We can be loved for very simple deeds;
Who has the grateful mention of a brother
Has really all the honor that he needs.
Winter
© John Le Gay Brereton
When winter chills your aged bones
As by the fire you sit and nod,
Youll hear a passing wind that moans,
And think of one beneath the sod.
Thou Art My Lute
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—
My being is attuned to thee.
Golden State
© Frank Bidart
I
To see my father
lying in pink velvet, a rosary
twined around his hands, rouged,