Love poems
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To Miss Sarah Siddons
© Frances Anne Kemble
Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year
Already feels old Winter's icy breath;
Fortunatus Nimium
© Robert Seymour Bridges
I
I have lain in the sun,
I have toiled as I might,
I have thought as I would,
And now it is night.
The Answer
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Spare me, dread angel of reproof,
And let the sunshine weave to-day
Its gold-threads in the warp and woof
Of life so poor and gray.
The Poet To His Love
© Edith Nesbit
ALL the flight of thoughts here, shy, bold, scared, intrusive,
Fluttering in the sun, between the green and blue,
Wheeling, whirling, poising, lovely and elusive,
How to cage the flying thoughts, my winged delight, for you?
Carolina
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THAT fair young land which gave me birth is dead!
Lost as a fallen star that quivering dies
Down the pale pathway of autumnal skies,
A vague faint radiance flickering where it fled;
The Country Clergyman's Trip To Cambridge -- An Election Ballad
© Thomas Babbington Macaulay
As I sate down to breakfast in state,
At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring,
In After Years
© Augusta Davies Webster
LOVE is dying. Why then, let it die.
Trample it down, that it die more fast.
The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving
© Edgar Albert Guest
It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell
Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well;
The Voice
© Henri de Regnier
I do not wish anyone to be near my sadness
Not even your dear step and your loved face,
Nor your indolent hand which caresses with a finger
The lazy ribbon and the closed book.
Spirit of Song
© James Brunton Stephens
Where is thy dwelling-place? Echo of sweetness,
Seraph of tenderness, where is thy home?
Abhangs (A Short Collection)
© Sant Tukaram
I was sleeping when Namdeo and Vitthal Stepped into my dream.
"Your job is to make poems. Stop wasting time," Namdeo said.
Vitthal gave me the measure and gently aroused me from a dream inside a dream.
Namdeo vowed to write one billion poems.
"Tuka, all the unwritten ones are your responsibility."
Flowers, Dear Flowers, Farewell!
© Louisa May Alcott
"We are sending you, dear flowers,
Forth alone to die,
In Exile
© Emma Lazarus
Twilight is here, soft breezes bow the grass,
Day's sounds of various toil break slowly off,
The Woman
© Harriet Monroe
Go sleep, my sweetierestrest!
Oh soft little hand on mother's breast!
Oh soft little lipsthe din's mos' gone-
Over and done, my dearie one!
The Path To Home
© Edgar Albert Guest
THERE'S the mother at the doorway, and the children at the gate,
And the little parlor windows with the curtains white and straight.
There are shaggy asters blooming in the bed that lines the fence,
And the simplest of the blossoms seems of mighty consequence.
Oh, there isn't any mansion underneath God's starry dome
That can rest a weary pilgrim like the little place called home.
