Love poems

/ page 1272 of 1285 /

Order by :

Love -- is that later Thing than Death --

© Emily Dickinson

Love -- is that later Thing than Death --
More previous -- than Life --
Confirms it at its entrance -- And
Usurps it -- of itself --

It came at last but prompter Death

© Emily Dickinson

It came at last but prompter Death
Had occupied the House --
His pallid Furniture arranged
And his metallic Peace --

If I may have it, when it's dead,

© Emily Dickinson

If I may have it, when it's dead,
I'll be contented -- so --
If just as soon as Breath is out
It shall belong to me --

I tried to think a lonelier Thing

© Emily Dickinson

I tried to think a lonelier Thing
Than any I had seen --
Some Polar Expiation -- An Omen in the Bone
Of Death's tremendous nearness --

I thought the Train would never come --

© Emily Dickinson

I thought the Train would never come --
How slow the whistle sang --
I don't believe a peevish Bird
So whimpered for the Spring --

I think the longest Hour of all

© Emily Dickinson

I think the longest Hour of all
Is when the Cars have come --
And we are waiting for the Coach --
It seems as though the Time

I shall not murmur if at last

© Emily Dickinson

I shall not murmur if at last
The ones I loved below
Permission have to understand
For what I shunned them so --

I had no time to Hate

© Emily Dickinson

I had no time to Hate --
Because
The Grave would hinder Me --
And Life was not so
Ample I
Could finish -- Enmity --

I cautious, scanned my little life

© Emily Dickinson

I cautious, scanned my little life --
I winnowed what would fade
From what would last till Heads like mine
Should be a-dreaming laid.

I cannot be ashamed

© Emily Dickinson

I cannot be ashamed
Because I cannot see
The love you offer --
Magnitude
Reverses Modesty

How many schemes may die

© Emily Dickinson

How many schemes may die
In one short Afternoon
Entirely unknown
To those they most concern --

How fleet -- how indiscreet an one --

© Emily Dickinson

How fleet -- how indiscreet an one --
How always wrong is Love --
The joyful little Deity
We are not scourged to serve --

How destitute is he

© Emily Dickinson

How destitute is he
Whose Gold is firm
Who finds it every time
The small stale Sum --

His voice decrepit was with Joy --

© Emily Dickinson

His voice decrepit was with Joy --
Her words did totter so
How old the News of Love must be
To make Lips elderly

Had this one Day not been.

Had this one Day not been.
Or could it cease to be
How smitten, how superfluous,
Were every other Day!

Fitter to see Him, I may be

Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance -- Grace -- to Me --
With Summers, and with Winters, grow,
Some passing Year -- A trait bestow

Far from Love the Heavenly Father

Far from Love the Heavenly Father
Leads the Chosen Child,
Oftener through Realm of Briar
Than the Meadow mild.

Dying! To be afraid of thee

Dying! To be afraid of thee
One must to thine Artillery
Have left exposed a Friend --
Than thine old Arrow is a Shot
Delivered straighter to the Heart
The leaving Love behind.

Did we disobey Him?

Did we disobey Him?
Just one time!
Charged us to forget Him --
But we couldn't learn!

Did the Harebell loose her girdle

Did the Harebell loose her girdle
To the lover Bee
Would the Bee the Harebell hallow
Much as formerly?