Love poems
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To a Greek Marble
© William Langland
Pótuia, pótuia
White grave goddess,
Pity my sadness,
O silence of Paros.
Sonnet 24: Rich Fools There Be
© Sir Philip Sidney
Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart
Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow:
And damning their own selves to Tantal's smart,
Wealth breeding want, more blist more wretched grow.
Medusa
© Sylvia Plath
Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder?
My mind winds to you
Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable,
Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous
repair.
God Bless America
© John Fuller
When they confess that they have lost the penial bone and outer space is
Once again a numinous void, when they’re kept out of Other Places,
And Dr Fieser falls asleep at last and dreams of unburnt faces,
When gold medals are won by the ton for forgetting about the different races,
God Bless America.
Spring Snow
© William Matthews
Here comes the powdered milk I drank
as a child, and the money it saved.
Here come the papers I delivered,
the spotted dog in heat that followed me home
Ode To Sara, In Answer To A Letter From Bristol
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Nor travels my meand'ring eye
The starry wilderness on high;
Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm as I pass,
Move with 'green radiance' thro' the grass,
An emerald of light.
He Remembers Forgotten Beauty
© William Butler Yeats
When my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
A Celebration of Charis: I. His Excuse for Loving
© Benjamin Jonson
Let it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Kissing Stieglitz Good-Bye
© Gerald Stern
Every city in America is approached
through a work of art, usually a bridge
but sometimes a road that curves underneath
or drops down from the sky. Pittsburgh has a tunnel—
Tears for Lesbias Sparrow
© Gaius Valerius Catullus
Sparrow, my sweet girls delight,
whom she plays with, holds to her breast,
Gareth And Lynette
© Alfred Tennyson
To whom the mother said,
'True love, sweet son, had risked himself and climbed,
And handed down the golden treasure to him.'
Mont Blanc
© Richard Monckton Milnes
Mount! I have watcht thee, at the fall of dew,
Array thee in thy panoply of gold,--
And then cast over it thy rosy vest,--
And last that awful robe that looks so cold,
Thy ghastly spectre--dress of nameless hue:
Then thou art least of earth, and then I love thee best.
Yea, The Roses Are Still On Fire
© Mathilde Blind
Yea, the roses are still on fire
With the bygone heat of July,
Though the least little wind drifting by
Shake a rose-leaf or two from the brier,
Be it never so soft a sigh.
The Munich Mannequins
© Sylvia Plath
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb
