Love poems
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When Orpheus Sweetly Did Complayne
© William Strode
When Orpheus sweetly did complayne
Upon his lute with heavy strayne
How his Euridice was slayne,
The trees to heare
Obtayn'd an eare,
And after left it off againe.
Upon The Blush Of A Faire Ladie
© William Strode
Stay lusty blood! where canst thou seeke
So blest a seat as in her cheeke?
How dar'st thou from her face retire
Whose beauty doth command desire?
Sonnet
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Methinks ofttimes my heart is like some bee
That goes forth through the summer day and sings,
The New Moon
© William Cullen Bryant
When, as the garish day is done,
Heaven burns with the descended sun,
'Tis passing sweet to mark,
Amid that flush of crimson light,
The new moon's modest bow grow bright,
As earth and sky grow dark.
The Fan : A Poem. Book I.
© John Gay
The goddess pleas'd, the curious work receive,
Remounts her chariot, and the grotto leaves;
With the light fan she moves the yielding air,
And gales, till then unknown, play round the fair.
Song Of The Redwood-Tree
© Walt Whitman
A prophecy and indirection-a thought impalpable, to breathe, as air;
A chorus of dryads, fading, departing-or hamadryads departing;
A murmuring, fateful, giant voice, out of the earth and sky,
Voice of a mighty dying tree in the Redwood forest dense.
Sonnett
© William Strode
My love and I for kisses play'd,
Shee would keepe stake, I was content,
But when I wonne shee would be paid;
This made mee aske her what she meant.
Pray, since I see (quoth shee) your wrangling vayne,
Take your owne kisses, give me myne againe.
Remembrances Of The Renowned Knight, Sir Rowland Cotton, Of Bellaport In Shropshire, Concerning
© William Strode
Had Death a Body, like the Dane's or thine,
Th' adst beene Her death; if humane Eares like mine,
Thy tongues had charm'd them; if a heart to love,
Each quality of thine a dart might prove.
My Love Is Like To Ice
© Edmund Spenser
My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
On The Death Of The Right Honourable The Lord Viscount Bayning
© William Strode
Though after Death, Thanks lessen into Praise,
And Worthies be not crown'd with gold, but bayes;
Shall we not thank? To praise Thee all agree;
We Debtors must out doe it, heartily.
The Forest Pool
© Mathilde Blind
LOST amid gloom and solitude,
A pool lies hidden in the wood,
A pool the autumn rain has made
Where flowers with their fair shadows played.
The Christmas Box
© Edgar Albert Guest
Oh, we have shipped his Christmas box with ribbons red 'tis tied,
And he shall find the things he likes from them he loves inside,
But he must miss the kisses true and all the laughter gay
And he must miss the smiles of home upon his Christmas Day.
After Paul Verlaine-I
© Ernest Christopher Dowson
Tears fall within mine heart,
As rain upon the town:
Whence does this languor start,
Possessing all mine heart?
On The Death Of Dr. Lancton President Of Maudlin College
© William Strode
When men for injuryes unsatisfy'd,
For hopes cutt off, for debts not fully payd,
For legacies in vain expected, mourne
Over theyr owne respects within the urne,
The Wanderings Of Oisin: Book III
© William Butler Yeats
Fled foam underneath us, and round us, a wandering and milky smoke,
High as the Saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide;
And those that fled, and that followed, from the foam-pale distance broke;
The immortal desire of Immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed.
Love Of Life
© Alfred Austin
Why love life more, the less of it be left,
And what is left be little but the lees,
On Gray Eyes
© William Strode
Looke how the russet morne exceeds the night,
How sleekest Jett yields to the di'monds light,
So farr the glory of the gray-bright eye
Out-vyes the black in lovely majesty.
On A Watch Made By A Blacksmith
© William Strode
A Vulcan and a Venus seldom part.
A blacksmith never us'd to filinge art
Beyond a lock and key, for Venus' sake
Hath cut a watch soe small that sence will ake
On A Gentlewoman's Blistred Lipp
© William Strode
Hide not that sprouting lipp, nor kill
The juicy bloome with bashfull skill:
Know it is an amorous dewe
That swells to court thy corall hewe,
Son Of A Scoundrel
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
Big Barney Fitch, he got soddenly rich
He got a big fancy house in Melbourne
With buckets of loot and big black leather boots
Acting so haughty and well-born
