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Poem Suppose? by robert william service

love poems — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 00:00:02 +0000

It’s mighty nice at shut of day
With weariness to hit the hey,
To close your eyes, tired through and through,
And just forget that “you are you.”

It’s mighty sweet to wake again
When sunshine floods the window pain;
I love in cosy couch to lie,
And re-discover “I am I.”

It would be grand could we conceive
A heaven in which to believe,
And in a better life to be be,
Find out with joy “we still are we.”

Though we assume with lapsing breath
Eternal is the sleep of death,
Would it not be divinely odd
To wake and find that – “God is God.”

Poem Stewards by raymond a foss

love poems — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 03:40:02 +0000

We are to be stewards, trustees, missionaries
cherishing that which we have,
responsible for their maintenance,
for spreading the word
of the richness
the blessing of grace,
of gifts all around
Each of us, has a role,
a part to play
in the church, living stones,
called to action
to be the hands of Christ,
the feet of the savior
the voice of the spirit now,
to be the Christ
in our part of the world,
our place in this age

April 26, 2008
Walk to Emmaus

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Poem September by helen hunt jackson

love poems — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 02:00:02 +0000

1 The golden-rod is yellow;
2 The corn is turning brown;
3 The trees in apple orchards
4 With fruit are bending down.

5 The gentian’s bluest fringes
6 Are curling in the sun;
7 In dusty pods the milkweed
8 Its hidden silk has spun.

9 The sedges flaunt their harvest,
10 In every meadow nook;
11 And asters by the brook-side
12 Make asters in the brook,

13 From dewy lanes at morning
14 The grapes’ sweet odors rise;
15 At noon the roads all flutter
16 With yellow butterflies.

17 By all these lovely tokens
18 September days are here,
19 With summer’s best of weather,
20 And autumn’s best of cheer.

21 But none of all this beauty
22 Which floods the earth and air
23 Is unto me the secret
24 Which makes September fair.

25 ‘T is a thing which I remember;
26 To name it thrills me yet:
27 One day of one September
28 I never can forget.

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Poem Sonnet: At Ostend, July 22nd 1787 by william lisle bowles

love poems — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 14:00:02 +0000

How sweet the tuneful bells’ responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy music wide,
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer-days, and those delightful years
When by my native streams, in life’s fair prime,
The mournful magic of their mingling chime
First waked my wond’ring childhood into tears;—
But seeming now, when all those days are o’er,
The sounds of joy, once heard, and heard no more.

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Poem Sonnet 3: Look In Thy Glass, And Tell The Face Thou Viewest by william shakespeare

love poems — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 13:00:01 +0000

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another,
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live remembered not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

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Poem Sonnets X by william shakespeare

love poems — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 22:40:01 +0000

THEN hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer’d woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so!

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Poem Song For Heroes by ellis parker butler

love poems — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 18:00:02 +0000

Captain O’Hare was a mariner brave;
He refused to abandon his ship;
A hero, he sleeps in a watery grave—
And his widow is now Mrs. Bipp,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Bipp!

Henri Dupont was a fearless young ace;
Five thousand feet up he was hit;
Each year on his grave pretty flowers we place—
And his widow is now Mrs. Schmitt,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Schmitt!

Corporal Dunn was a volunteer bold;
He plunged in the deadliest fray;
A bayonet thrust laid him out stony cold—
And his widow is now Mrs. Gray,
Haw! Haw!
His widow is now Mrs. Gray!

But Peter McGuck was a cowardly sneak,
Like a hound he remained home in fear;
When fishing one day he fell into the creek—
And his widow is now Mrs. Greer,
Haw! Haw! Haw!
Mrs. William O’Houlihan Greer!

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of ellis parker butler

Poem Sonnet LXXXVI by william shakespeare

love poems — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 13:00:01 +0000

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill’d up his line,
Then lack’d I matter; that enfeebled mine.

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Poem Sonnet 105: Let Not My Love Be Called Idolatry by william shakespeare

love poems — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 11:00:01 +0000

Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my belov

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of william shakespeare

Poem Sonnet LXIII by william shakespeare

love poems — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 03:40:01 +0000

Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’er-worn;
When hours have drain’d his blood and fill’d his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell’d on to age’s steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he’s king
Are vanishing or vanish’d out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age’s cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of william shakespeare

Poem She Tells Her Love by robert graves

love poems — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 01:40:01 +0000

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And put out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

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Poem Security by william stafford

love poems — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 22:40:01 +0000

Tomorrow will have an island. Before night
I always find it. Then on to the next island.
These places hidden in the day separate
and come forward if you beckon.
But you have to know they are there before they exist.

Some time there will be a tomorrow without any island.
So far, I haven’t let that happen, but after
I’m gone others may become faithless and careless.
Before them will tumble the wide unbroken sea,
and without any hope they will stare at the horizon.

So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:
to be a discoverer you hold close whatever
you find, and after a while you decide
what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,
you turn to the open sea and let go.

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Poem Silence… (40) by e e cummings

love poems — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 18:40:02 +0000

silence

.is
a
looking

bird:the

turn
ing;edge,of
life

(inquiry before snow

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of e e cummings

Poem Searching by ella wheeler wilcox

love poems — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 15:40:01 +0000

These quiet Autumn days,
My soul, like Noah’s dove, on airy wings
Goes out and searches for the hidden things
Beyond the hills of haze.

With mournful, pleading cries,
Above the waters of the voiceless sea
That laps the shore of broad Eternity,
Day after day, it flies,

Searching, but all in vain,
For some stray leaf that it may light upon,
And read the future, as the days agone -
Its pleasures, and its pain.

Listening patiently
For some voice speaking from the mighty deep,
Revealing all the things that it doth keep
In secret there for me.

Come back and wait, my soul!
Day after day thy search has been in vain.
Voiceles and silent o’er the future’s plain
Its mystic waters roll.

God, seeing, knoweth best,
And in His time the waters shall subside,
And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide,
Then wait, my soul, and rest.

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of ella wheeler wilcox

Poem Salmon by jorie graham

love poems — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 05:40:02 +0000

I watched them once, at dusk, on television, run,
in our motel room half-way through
Nebraska, quick, glittering, past beauty, past
the importance of beauty.,
archaic,
not even hungry, not even endangered, driving deeper and deeper
into less. They leapt up falls, ladders,
and rock, tearing and leaping, a gold river,
and a blue river traveling
in opposite directions.
They would not stop, resolution of will
and helplessness, as the eye
is helpless
when the image forms itself, upside-down, backward,
driving up into
the mind, and the world
unfastens itself
from the deep ocean of the given. . .Justice, aspen
leaves, mother attempting
suicide, the white night-flying moth
the ants dismantled bit by bit and carried in
right through the crack
in my wall. . . .How helpless
the still pool is,
upstream,
awaiting the gold blade
of their hurry. Once, indoors, a child,
I watched, at noon, through slatted wooden blinds,
a man and woman , naked, eyes closed,
climb onto each other,
on the terrace floor,
and ride–two gold currents
wrapping round and round each other, fastening,
unfastening. I hardly knew
what I saw. Whatever shadow there was in that world
it was the one each cast
onto the other,
the thin black seam
they seemed to be trying to work away
between them. I held my breath.
as far as I could tell, the work they did
with sweat and light
was good. I’d say
they traveled far in opposite
directions. What is the light
at the end of the day, deep, reddish-gold, bathing the walls,
the corridors, light that is no longer light, no longer clarifies,
illuminates, antique, freed from the body of
that air that carries it. What is it
for the space of time
where it is useless, merely
beautiful? When they were done, they made a distance
one from the other
and slept, outstretched,
on the warm tile
of the terrace floor,
smiling, faces pressed against the stone. < /div>
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Poem Sonnet XCVIII by william shakespeare

love poems — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 23:00:01 +0000

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress’d in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play:

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of william shakespeare

Poem Spring Morning Light by raymond a foss

love poems — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 22:00:01 +0000

This morning, that spring morning light,
something special, magical, the low dim, soft light
illumining the treetops, the nascent buds, the flowers
translucent, glowing a cherry red, burnt orange highlights
a warming sun, not yet hot, awaking the forest, the woods
just off the highway, still visible into the thin groves
before the summer leaves block the view
the spring morning light, washing through,
more than filtered light, shining spotlight still
down to the forest floor, all the woods awash, bathed
in that wondrous spring morning light

May 11, 2008

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Poem Superiority To Fate by emily dickinson

love poems — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 18:40:01 +0000

Superiority to Fate
Is difficult to gain
‘Tis not conferred of Any
But possible to earn

A pittance at a time
Until to Her surprise
The Soul with strict economy
Subsist till Paradise.

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of emily dickinson

Poem Sorrowing Love by katherine mansfield

love poems — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 11:00:01 +0000

And again the flowers are come,
And the light shakes,
And no tiny voice is dumb,
And a bud breaks
On the humble bush and the proud restless tree.
Come with me!

Look, this little flower is pink,
And this one white.
Here’s a pearl cup for your drink,
Here’s for your delight
A yellow one, sweet with honey.
Here’s fairy money
Silver bright
Scattered over the grass
As we pass.

Here’s moss. How the smell of it lingers
On my cold fingers!
You shall have no moss. Here’s a frail
Hyacinth, deathyly pale.
Not for you, not for you!
And the place where they grew
You must promise me not to discover,
My sorrowful lover!
Shall we never be happy again?
Never again play?
In vain–in vain!
Come away!

Poems tags: famous poems, famous poems about sorrow, poems s, poetical works of katherine mansfield

Poem South Africa by rudyard kipling

love poems — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 09:40:01 +0000

1903
Lived a woman wonderful,
(May the Lord amend her!)
Neither simple, kind, nor true,
But her Pagan beauty drew
Christian gentlemen a few
Hotly to attend her.

Christian gentlemen a few
From Berwick unto Dover;
For she was South Africa,
Ana she was South Africa,
She was Our South Africa,
Africa all over!

Half her land was dead with drouth,
Half was red with battle;
She was fenced with fire and sword
Plague on pestilence outpoured,
Locusts on the greening sward
And murrain on the cattle!

True, ah true, and overtrue.
That is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
And she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Africa all over!

Bitter hard her lovers toild,
Scandalous their paymen, –
Food forgot on trains derailed;
Cattle — dung where fuel failed;
Water where the mules had staled;
And sackcloth for their raiment!

So she filled their mouths with dust
And their bo nes with fever;
Greeted them with cruel lies;
Treated them despiteful-wise;
Meted them calamities
Till they vowed to leave her!

They took ship and they took sail,
Raging, from her borders –
In a little, none the less,
They forgat their sore duresse;
They forgave her waywardness
And returned for orders!

They esteemed her favour more
Than a Throne’s foundation.
For the glory of her face
Bade farewell to breed and race –
Yea, and made their burial-place
Altar of a Nation!

Wherefore, being bought by blood,
And by blood restored
To the arms that nearly lost,
She, because of all she cost,
Stands, a very woman, most
Perfect and adored!

On your feet, and let them know
This is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Is Our Own 5outh Africa,
Africa all over!

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Poem Sleeping In The Forest by mary oliver

love poems — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 19:40:02 +0000

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

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Poem Some Keep The Sabbath Going To Church by emily dickinson

love poems — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 17:40:01 +0000

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –
I just wear my Wings –
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton — sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –
I’m going, all along.

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Poem Specula by thomas edward brown

love poems — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 09:40:01 +0000

When He appoints to meet thee, go thou forth—
It matters not
If south or north,
Bleak waste or sunny plot.
Nor think, if haply He thou seek’st be late,
He does thee wrong.
To stile or gate
Lean thou thy head, and long!
It may be that to spy thee He is mounting
Upon a tower,
Or in thy counting
Thou hast mista’en the hour.
But, if He comes not, neither do thou go
Till Vesper chime.
Belike thou then shalt know
He hath been with thee all the time.

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Poem Summary by dorothy parker

love poems — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 23:40:01 +0000

Every love’s the love before
In a duller dress.
That’s the measure of my lore-
Here’s my bitterness:
Would I knew a little more,
Or very much less!

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of dorothy parker

Poem Scented Herbage Of My Breast. by walt whitman

love poems — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 18:40:01 +0000

SCENTED herbage of my breast,
Leaves from you I yield, I write, to be perused best afterwards,
Tomb-leaves, body-leaves, growing up above me, above death,
Perennial roots, tall leaves—O the winter shall not freeze you, delicate leaves,
Every year shall you bloom again—out from where you retired, you shall emerge again;
O I do not know whether many, passing by, will discover you, or inhale your faint
odor—but
I
believe a few will;
O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell, in your own way, of the
heart
that
is under you;
O burning and throbbing—surely all will one day be accomplish’d;
O I do not know what you mean, there underneath yourselves—you are not happiness,
You are often more bitter than I can bear—you burn and sting me,
Yet you are very beautiful to me, you faint-tinged roots—you make me think of Death,
Death is beautiful from you—(what indeed is finally beautiful, except Death and
Love?)
—O I think it is not for life I am chanting here my chant of lovers—I think it
must
be for
Death,
For how calm, how solemn it grows, to ascend to the atmosphere of lovers,
Death or life I am then indifferent—my Soul declines to prefer,
I am not sure but the high Soul of lovers welcomes death most;
Indeed, O Death, I think now these leaves mean precisely the same as you mean;
Grow up taller, sweet leaves, that I may see! grow up out of my breast!
Spring away from the conceal’d heart there!
Do not fold yourself so in your pink-tinged roots, timid leaves!
Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my breast!
Come, I am determin’d to unbare this broad breast of mine—I have long enough
stifled
and
choked:
—Emblematic and capricious blade, I leave you—now you serve me not;
Away! I will say what I have to say, by itself,
I will escape from the sham that was proposed to me,
I will sound myself and comra des only—I will never again utter a call, only their
call,
I will raise, with it, immortal reverberations through The States,
I will give an example to lovers, to take permanent shape and will through The States;
Through me shall the words be said to make death exhilarating;
Give me your tone therefore, O Death, that I may accord with it,
Give me yourself—for I see that you belong to me now above all, and are folded
inseparably
together—you Love and Death are;
Nor will I allow you to balk me any more with what I was calling life,
For now it is convey’d to me that you are the purports essential,
That you hide in these shifting forms of life, for reasons—and that they are mainly
for
you,
That you, beyond them, come forth, to remain, the real reality,
That behind the mask of materials you patiently wait, no matter how long,
That you will one day, perhaps, take control of all,
That you will perhaps dissipate this entire show of appearance,
That may-be you are what it is all for—but it does not last so very long;
But you will last very long.

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Poem Song by sir john suckling

love poems — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 09:40:01 +0000

Why so pale and wan fond lover?
Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute young sinner?
Prithee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
Saying nothing do’t?
Prithee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her;
The devil take her.

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Poem Sonnet XXXIIII by edmund spenser

love poems — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 00:40:01 +0000

Lyke as a ship that through the Ocean wyde,
by conduct of some star doth make her way.
whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde.
out of her course doth wander far astray:
So I whose star, that wont with her bright ray,
me to direct, with cloudes is ouercast,
doe wander now in darknesse and dismay,
through hidden perils round about me plast.
Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past
My Helice the lodestar of my lyfe
will shine again, and looke on me at last,
with louely light to cleare my cloudy grief,
Till then I wander carefull comfortlesse,
in secret sorow and sad pensiuenesse.

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Poem Sestina by ella wheeler wilcox

love poems — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 23:00:01 +0000

I wandered o’er the vast green plains of youth,
And searched for Pleasure. On a distant height
Fame’s silhouette stood sharp against the skies.
Beyond vast crowds that thronged a broad highway
I caught the glimmer of a golden goal,
While from a blooming bower smiled siren Love.

Straight gazing in her eyes, I laughed at Love,
With all the haughty insolence of youth,
As past her bower I strode to seek my goal.
‘Now will I climb to glory’s dizzy height, ‘
I said, ‘ for there above the common way
Doth pleasure dwell companioned by the skies.’

But when I reached that summit near the skies,
So far from man I seemed, so far from Love-
‘Not here, ‘ I cried, ‘doth Pleasure find her way, ‘
Seen from the distant borderland of youth.
Fame smiles upon us from her sun-kissed height,
But frowns in shadows when we reach the goal.

Then were mine eyes fixed on that glittering goal,
Dear to all sense-sunk souls beneath the skies.
Gold tempts the artist from the lofty height,
Gold lures the maiden from the arms of Love,
Gold buys the fresh ingenuous heart of youth,
‘And gold, ‘ I said, ‘will show me Pleasure’s way.’

But ah! the soil and discord of that way,
Where savage hordes rushed headlong to the goal,
Dead to the best impulses of their youth,
Blind to the azure beauty of the skies;
Dulled to the voice of conscience and of love,
They wandered far from Truth’s eternal height.

Then Truth spoke to me from that noble height,
Saying: ‘Thou didst pass Pleasure on the way,
She with the yearning eyes so full of Love,
Whom thou disdained to seek for glory’s goal.’
Two blending paths beneath God’s arching skies
Lead straight to Pleasure. Ah, blind heart of youth,
Not up fame’s height, not toward the base god’s goal,
Doth Pleasure make her way, but ‘neath calm skies
Where Duty walks with Love in endless youth.

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Poem Sonnet 37 Pardon, Oh, Pardon, That My Soul Should Make by elizabeth barrett browning

love poems — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 21:40:01 +0000

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make,
Of all that strong divineness which I know
For thine and thee, an image only so
Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.
It is that distant years which did not take
Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,
Have forced my swimming brain to undergo
Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake
Thy purity of likeness and distort
Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit:
As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,
His guardian sea-god to commemorate,
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort
And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate.

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of elizabeth barrett browning

Poem Sonnet On The Death Of Mr Richard West by thomas gray

love poems — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 19:40:01 +0000

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And redd’ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require:
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain:
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Poems tags: famous poems, poems s, poetical works of thomas gray