Love poems
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In the Next Street
© Ken Smith
theres only ever one argument: his,
bawling out whoever punctuates
the brief intervals his cussing
| interrupts, something unheard, reason perhaps.
There are Days
© John Montague
There are days when
one should be able
to pluck off one's head
like a dented or worn
To A Child Embracing His Mother
© Thomas Hood
Love thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
No Music
© John Montague
I'll tell you a sore truth, little understood
It's harder to leave, than to be left:
To stay, to leave, both sting wrong.
The Charm.
© Robert Crawford
O touch her with thy heavenly beams,
Bright Moon! that she may know
Within his paradise of dreams
Love died not long ago.
Tom Taylor
© Robert Graves
On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer,
Old soldiers stumbling homeward here,
The Sirens Cave At Tivoli
© Frances Anne Kemble
As o'er the chasm I breathless hung,
Thus from the depths the siren sung:
Womanly Qualms
© Ellis Parker Butler
When I go rowing on the lake,
I long to be a man;
Ill give my Sunday frock to have
A callous heart like Dan.
Love Conquer'd
© Richard Lovelace
I.
The childish god of love did sweare
Thus: By my awfull bow and quiver,
Yon' weeping, kissing, smiling pair,
I'le scatter all their vowes i' th' ayr,
And their knit imbraces shiver.
Woolworth's
© Mark Hillringhouse
for Greg FallonA kid yells "Mother Fucker" out the school bus window.
I don't think anyone notices the afternoon clouds turning pink along the horizon,
sunlight dripping down the stone facades,
the ancient names of old stores fading like the last century
Chorus Of Mystae In Hades
© Aristophanes
_Xanthias_--There, master, there they are, the initiated
All sporting about as he told us we should find 'em.
They're singing in praise of Bacchus like Diagoras.
The Better Part
© Edith Nesbit
THERE'S a grey old church on a wind-swept hill
Where three bent yew trees cower,
Death
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
They die--the dead return not--Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye--
The Perch
© Galway Kinnell
There is a fork in a branch
of an ancient, enormous maple,
one of a grove of such trees,
where I climb sometimes and sit and look out
Madness
© Henry James Pye
Here some grave Man whose head with prudence fraught
Was ne'er disturb'd by one eccentric thought,
Who without meaning rolls his leaden eyes,
And being stupid, fancies he is wise,
May with sagacious sneers my case deplore,
And urge the use of rest, and Hellebore.
Little Sleep's-Head Sprouting Hair In The Moonlight
© Galway Kinnell
I have heard you tell
the sun, don't go down, I have stood by
as you told the flower, don't grow old,
don't die. Little Maud,
St. Francis And The Sow
© Galway Kinnell
The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Keats
© John Keats
Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;
And may it taste to you like good old wine,
Take you to real happiness and give
Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive.
