Love poems
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Faith
© Edgar Albert Guest
This much I know:
God does not wrong us here,
Though oft His judgments seem severe
And reason falters 'neath the blow,
Some day we'll learn 'twas better so.
To a Clergyman on the Death of His Lady
© Phillis Wheatley
Where contemplation finds her sacred spring,
Where heav'nly music makes the arches ring,
The Confidant Peasant And The Maladroit Bear
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
A peasant had a docile bear,
A bear of manners pleasant,
And all the love she had to spare
She lavished on the peasant:
She proved her deep affection plainly
(The method was a bit ungainly).
Years
© Sylvia Plath
They enter as animals from the outer
Space of holly where spikes
Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.
Hymn To The Naiads
© Mark Akenside
ARGUMENT. The Nymphs, who preside over springs and rivulets, are addressed at day-break, in honor of their several functions, and of the relations which they bear to the natural and to the moral world. Their origin is deduced from the first allegorical deities, or powers of nature; according to the doctrine of the old mythological poets, concerning the generation of the gods and the rise of things. They are then successively considered, as giving motion to the air and exciting summer-breezes; as nourishing and beautifying the vegetable creation; as contributing to the fullness of navigable rivers, and consequently to the maintenance of commerce; and by that means, to the maritime part of military power. Next is represented their favourable influence upon health, when assisted by rural exercise: which introduces their connection with the art of physic, and the happy effects of mineral medicinal springs. Lastly, they are celebrated for the friendship which the Muses bear them, and for the true inspiration which temperance only can receive: in opposition to the enthusiasm of the more licentious poets.
--
The World In The House
© Jane Taylor
Regions of intellect ! serenely fair,
Hence let us rise, and breathe your purer air.
--There shine the stars ! one intellectual glance
At that bright host,--on yon sublime expanse,
Might prove a cure ;--well, say they, let them shine
With all our hearts,--but let us dress and dine.
To James Whitcomb Riley With Admiration And Regard
© Madison Julius Cawein
_O lyrist of the lowly and the true,
The song I sought for you
That Shadow, My Likeness
© Walt Whitman
THAT shadow, my likeness, that goes to and fro, seeking a livelihood,
chattering, chaffering;
How often I find myself standing and looking at it where it flits;
How often I question and doubt whether that is really me;
-But in these, and among my lovers, and caroling my songs,
O I never doubt whether that is really me.
The Hero
© John Greenleaf Whittier
"O for a knight like Bayard,
Without reproach or fear;
My light glove on his casque of steel,
My love-knot on his spear!
The Old Apple-Woman
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
A Broadway Lyric
SHE sits by the side of a turbulent stream
That rushes and rolls forever
Up and down like a weary dream
Hamlet As Told On The Street
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Well, that was the end of our sweet prince,
He died in confusion and nobodys seen him since.
And the moral of the story is bells do get out of tune
And you can find shit in a silver spoon
And an old mans revenge can be a young mans ruin
Oh and never look too close
at what your mamma is doin.
The Golden Apple
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
She saw on the far bank a golden apple,
A glowing apple, poor little Eve,
Ernst Of Edelsheim
© John Hay
I'll tell the story, kissing
This white hand for my pains:
No sweeter heart, nor falser
E'er filled such fine, blue veins.
Matinee by Patrick Phillips: American Life in Poetry #124 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Here is a lovely poem about survival by Patrick Phillips of New York. People sometimes ask me "What are poems for?" and "Matinee" is an example of the kind of writing that serves its readers, that shows us a way of carrying on.
Matinee
After the biopsy,
after the bone scan,
after the consult and the crying,
The Gardener
© Roderic Quinn
WITHIN this garden space are set
Sweet mignonette and violet,
Sunk in rich mould; at dawn and night
Their leaves dew-wet.
A Face
© Robert Browning
If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pure gold,
To My First Love
© Hristo Botev
Put aside that song of love,
do not fill my heart with pain -
I'm young but I don't know of youth
and if I did I wouldn't claim
On the Paroo
© Henry Kendall
AS WHEN the strong stream of a wintering sea
Rolls round our coast, with bodeful breaks of storm,
