Love poems
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Battle Of Hastings - I
© Thomas Chatterton
From Chatelet hys launce Erle Egward drew,
And hit Wallerie on the dexter cheek;
Peerc'd to his braine, and cut his tongue in two.
There, knyght, quod he, let that thy actions speak --
The Princess (part 7)
© Alfred Tennyson
'If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream,
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself:
But if you be that Ida whom I knew,
I ask you nothing: only, if a dream,
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die tonight.
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die.'
'Dompna Pois De Me No'us Cal'
© Ezra Pound
FROM THE PROVENCAL OF EN BERTRANS DE BORN
Lady, since you care nothing for me,
Stanzas To Augusta
© George Gordon Byron
I.
When all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray
And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way;
Dover To Munich
© Charles Stuart Calverley
Farewell, farewell! Before our prow
Leaps in white foam the noisy channel,
A tourist's cap is on my brow,
My legs are cased in tourists' flannel:
No My Friends No!
© William Gay
Hail foes to oppression, and lovers of freedom!
Your day has arrived, and your power you know:-
Sorry Her Lot
© William Schwenck Gilbert
Sorry her lot who loves too well,
Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Sad are the sighs that own the spell
Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!
The Plaint Of King Yew's Forsaken Wife
© Confucius
Kind and impartial, nature's laws
No odious difference make.
But providence appears unkind;
Events are often hard.
This man, to principle untrue,
Denies me his regard.
II.--Death
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THEN whence, O Death! thy dreariness? We know
That every flower the breeze's flattering breath
Wooes to a blush, and love-like murmuring low,
Dies but to multiply its bloom in death:
Sonnet 57: "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?
"Sed Nos Qui Vivimus"
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
How beautiful is life--the physical joy of sense and breathing;
The glory of the world which has found speech and speaks to us;
The robe which summer throws in June round the white bones of winter;
The new birth of each day, itself a life, a world, a sun!
So Far, So Near
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
THOU so far, we grope to grasp thee
Thou, so near, we cannot clasp thee
Thou, so wise, our prayers grow heedless
Thou, so loving, they are needless!
Training
© Wilfred Owen
Not this week nor this month dare I lie down
In languour under lime trees or smooth smile.
Love must not kiss my face pale that is brown.
A Portrait
© Dorothy Parker
You do not know how heavy a heart it is
That hangs about my neck- a clumsy stone
Cut with a birth, a death, a bridal-day.
Each time I love, I find it still my own,
Who take it, now to that lad, now to this,
Seeking to give the wretched thing away.
In The Garden VI: A Peach
© Edward Dowden
IF any sense in mortal dust remains
When mine has been refin'd from flower to flower,
A Wreath Of Sonnets (3/14)
© France Preseren
Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays,
A heart not to be silenced any more;
Now I am like to Tasso who of yore
Would sing his Leonora's fame and praise.
Old Memory
© William Butler Yeats
O THOUGHT, fly to her when the end of day
Awakens an old memory, and say,
