Love poems
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III. The Dead
© Rupert Brooke
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.
My Mother
© Taylor Ann
Who fed me from her gentle breast,And hush'd me in her arms to rest,And on my cheek sweet kisses prest? My Mother.
The Gardener 38
© Rabindranath Tagore
My love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic in his mind
Fruit-gathering XXXVI
© Rabindranath Tagore
UPAGUPTA, the disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the city wall of Mathura
Fruit-gathering LV
© Rabindranath Tagore
Tulsidas, the poet, was wandering, deep in thought, by the Ganges, in that lonely spot where they burn their dead.
The Child
© Rabindranath Tagore
The first flush of dawn glistens on the dew-dripping leaves of the forest
Mammy
© Tabb John Banister
I loved her countenance whereon, Despite the longest day,The tenderness of visions gone In shadow seemed to stay
An Idolator
© Tabb John Banister
The Baby has no skiesBut Mother's eyes, Nor any God above But Mother's Love.His angel sees the Father's face,But he the Mother's, full of grace;And yet the heavenly kingdom is Of such as this.
T?rnfallet
© Joseph Brodsky
There is a meadow in Sweden
where I lie smitten,
eyes stained with clouds'
white ins and outs.
A Ballad of François Villon, Prince of All Ballad-Makers
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;When song new-born put off the old world's attireAnd felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that cameFresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears,And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears;Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire,When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fameSpurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!What far delight has cooled the fierce desireThat like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame,But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?
Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire,A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame
Atalanta in Calydon: A Tragedy (complete text)
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Tous zontas eu dran. katthanon de pas anerGe kai skia. to meden eis ouden repei
Atalanta in Calydon
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plainFills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;And the brown bright nightingale amorousIs half assuaged for Itylus,For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain
Love that doth Reign and Live within my Thought
© Henry Howard
Love that doth reign and live within my thoughtAnd built his seat within my captive breast,Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,Oft in my face he doth his banner rest
The Witness
© Sullivan Rosemary
I have to admit it's a strange feelingto blow your wife away,he said and kind of smiled
She walked into our lives like she invented us (4)
© Sullivan Rosemary
She walked into our lives like she invented us
What's the Good?
© Studdert Kennedy Geoffrey Anketell
Well, I've done my bit o' scrappin', And I've done in quite a lot;Nicked 'em neatly wiv my bayonet, So I needn't waste a shot
