Love poems
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The Sending Of The Magi
© Bliss William Carman
IN a far Eastern country
It happened long of yore,
Where a lone and level sunrise
Flushes the desert floor,
Third Sunday In Lent
© John Keble
See Lucifer like lightning fall,
Dashed from his throne of pride;
While, answering Thy victorious call,
The Saints his spoils divide;
This world of Thine, by him usurped too long,
Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants' wrong.
Dost Thou Not Care?
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart
To love and not to love.
English Flavors
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I love to lick English the way I licked the hard
round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six
good conduct points on Sundays after mass.
Garage Sale
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I sold her bed for a song.
A song of yearning like an orphans.
Or the one knives carve into bread.
The Worlds in this World
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Doors were left open in heaven again:
drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages
around roofs and trees. Like wet flags, shutters
flap and fold. Even light is blown out of town,
Water
© Wendell Berry
I was born in a drouth year. That summer
my mother waited in the house, enclosed
in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,
for the men to come back in the evenings,
Sonnet Written Among The Ruins Of The Castle At Heidelberg
© Frances Anne Kemble
Weep'st thou to see the ruin and decay
Which Time doth wreak upon earth's mighty things?
When I Roved A Young Highlander
© George Gordon Byron
When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep sumrnit, oh Morven of snow!
The Miner
© James Russell Lowell
Down 'mid the tangled roots of things
That coil about the central fire,
I seek for that which giveth wings
To stoop, not soar, to my desire.
Words
© Muriel Stuart
Is it not brave to be a king, Techelles,--
Usumcasane and Theridamas,
Is it not passing brave to be a king,
And ride in triumph through Persepolis? --MARLOWE
The Country Of Marriage
© Wendell Berry
I dream of you walking at night along the streams
of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
of birds opening around you as you walk.
You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.
Ripening
© Wendell Berry
The longer we are together
the larger death grows around us.
How many we know by now
who are dead! We, who were young,
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
© Wendell Berry
Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
In The Churchyard At Tarrytown
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Here lies the gentle humorist, who died
In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!
In A Motel Parking Lot, Thinking Of Dr. Williams
© Wendell Berry
The poem is important, but
not more than the people
whose survival it serves,
Gipsy Love
© Arthur Symons
The gipsy tents are on the down,
The gipsy girls are here;
And it's O to be off and away from the town
With a gipsy for my dear!
1991-i
© Wendell Berry
The year begins with war.
Our bombs fall day and night,
Hour after hour, by death
Abroad appeasing wrath,
What We Need Is Here
© Wendell Berry
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
