What's your fav love poem?

Mine? Eliz. Browning's famous sonnet:





"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."








How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.


I love thee to the depth and breadth and height


My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight


For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.


I love thee to the level of everyday's


Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.


I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;


I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.


I love thee with a passion put to use


In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.


I love thee with a love I seemed to lose


With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,


Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,


I shall but love thee better after death.








- Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

What's your fav love poem?
Annabelle Lee by Edgar Allen Poe
Reply:almost all of them
Reply:Asphodel, That Greeny Flower by William Carlos Williams!! I don't even understand all of it, but I love it so much. PLEASE go read it!!





http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMI...
Reply:My favorite love poem is Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 because it's about TRUE love and not just lust or temporary infatuation.





Sonnet 130 - William Shakespeare





My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;


Coral is far more red than her lips' red;


If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;


If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.


I have seen roses damasked, red and white,


But no such roses see I in her cheeks;


And in some perfumes is there more delight


Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.


I love to hear her speak, yet well I know


That music hath a far more pleasing sound;


I grant I never saw a goddess go;


My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.


And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare


As any she belied with false compare.
Reply:Liza Barclay's "Ode to Morningwood"
Reply:Sure it actually talks about good old fashion adultry...but...





"When We Two Parted"


--Byron





When we two parted


In silence and tears


Half broken-hearted,


To sever for years,


Pale grew thy cheek and cold,


Colder thy kiss;


Truly that hour foretold


Sorrow to this!





The dew of the morning


Sunk chill on my brow;


It felt like the warning


Of what I feel now.


Thy vows are all broken,


And light is thy fame:


I hear thy name spoken


And share in its shame.





They name thee before me,


A knell to mine ear;


A shudder comes o'er me--


Why wert thy so dear?


They know not I knew thee


Who knew thee too well:


Long, long shall I rue thee


Too deeply to tell.





In secret we met:


In silence I grieve


That thy heart could forget,


Thy spirit deceive.


If I should meet thee


After long years,


How should I greet thee?--


With silence and tears.
Reply:To His Coy Mistress
Reply:pyarkiyto darna kya
Reply:The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Reply:Since "To His Coy Mistress" has already been mentioned, another one of my favorites is William Wordsworth's A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal...which is rather morbid as a love poem, actually:





A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;


I had no human fears:


She seem'd a thing that could not feel


The touch of earthly years.





No motion has she now, no force;


She neither hears nor sees;


Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course


With rocks, and stones, and trees.
Reply:"Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver" by Luís de Camões. If you understand portuguese look it up.
Reply:many
Reply:Attila Jozsef 's "ODE"


Óda





1





I am alone on these glittering crags.


A sinuous breeze


floats delicious, the infant summer's


suppertime simmer and ease.


I school my heart into this silence.


Not so arduous--


All that is vanished is aswarm in me,


my head is bowed, and my hand is


vacuous.





I see the mane of the mountain--


each little leafvein


leaps with the light of your brow.





The path is quite deserted,


I see how your skirt is floated


in the wind's sough.


Under the tender, the tenuous bough


I see you shake out your hair, how it clings,


your soft, trembling breasts; behold


--just as the Szinva-stream glides beneath--


the round white pebbles of your teeth,


and how the welling laughter springs


tumbling over them like fairy gold.





2





Oh how much I love you, who've given


speech to both the universes:


the heart's caves, its trickweaving deepenings,


sly involute lonelinesses--


and starry heaven.


As water glides from its own thunderous fall


you fly from me and we are cleft and parted,


whilst I, among the mountains of my life, still call,


still kneel, and sing, and raise the echo with my cry,


slamming against the earth and sky,


that I love you, step-nurse, mother-hearted!





3





I love you as a child his mother's breast,


as the dumb caves their own bottomlessness,


as halls the light that shows them best,


as the soul loves flame, as the body rest!


I love you as we who marked for death


love the moments of their living breath.





Every smile, every word, every move you make,


as falling bodies to my earth, I press;


as into metal acids eat and ache,


I etch you in my brains with instinct's stress,


beautiful shapeliness,


your substance fills the essence they partake.





The moments march by, clattering and relentless,


but in my ears your silence lies.


Even the stars blaze up, fall, evanesce,


but you're a stillness in my eyes.


The taste of you, hushed like a cavern-pool,


floats in my mouth, as cool;


your hand, upon a water-glass,


veined with its glowing lace,


dawns beautiful.





4





Ah, what strange stuff is this of which I'm made,


that but your glance can sculpt me into shape?--


what kind of soul, what kind of light or shade,


what prodigy that I, who have long strayed


in my dim fog of nothingness unmade,


explore your fertile body's curving scape?





--And as the logos flowers in my brain,


immerse myself in its occult terrain! . . .





Your capillaries, like a bloodred rose,


ceaselessly stir and dance.


There that eternal current seethes and flows


and flowers as love upon your countenance,


to bless with fruit your womb's dark excellence.


A myriad rootlets broider round


and round your stomach's tender ground,


whose subtle threadings, woven and unwound,


unknit the very knot whereby they're bound,


that thus thy lymphy cellbrood might abound,


and the great, leaved boughs of thy lungs resound


their whispered glory round!





The eterna materia goes marching on


happily through your gut's dark cavern-cells,


and to the dead waste rich life is given


within the ardent kidneys' boiling wells!





Billowing, your hills arise, arise,


constellations tremble in your skies,


lakes, factories work on by day and night,


a million creatures bustle with delight,


millipede,


seaweed,


a heartless mercy, gentle cruelty,


your hot sun shines, your darkling north light broods,


in you there stir the unscanned moods


of a blind incalculable eternity.





5





So falls in clotted spatters


at your feet this blood,


this parched utterance.


Being stutters;


law is the only spotless eloquence.


My toiling organs, wherein I am renewed


over and over daily, are subdued


to their final silence.





But yet each part cries out--


O you who from the billioned multitude,


O you unique, you chosen, wooed


and singled out, you cradle, bed,


and grave, soft quickener of the dead,


receive me into you.





(How high is this dawn-shadowy sky!


Armies are glittering in its ore.


Radiance anguishing to the eye.


Now I am lost, I can no more.


Up in the world I hear it batter,


my heart's old roar.)





6





(Envoi)





(Now the train's going down the track,


maybe today it'll carry me back,


maybe my hot face will cool down today,


maybe you'll talk to me, maybe you'll say:





Warm water's running, there's a bath by and by!


Here is a towel, now get yourself dry!


The meat's on the oven, and you will be fed!


There where I lie, there is your bed.)





(1933)
Reply:The Highway Man.... it's far too long to type here but look it up. There is no better love poem.
Reply:Rather than a poem, it's a lyric from a song titled "I Didn't Know What Time It Was". Here's the lyrics:





I Didn't Know What Time It Was


Words and Music by Lorenz Hart and Richard Rodgers





(Verse)


Once I was young--


Yesterday, perhaps--


Danced with Jim and Paul


And kissed some other chaps.





Once I was young,


But never was naive.


I thought I had a trick or two


Up my imaginary sleeve.





And now I know I was naive.





(Refrain)





I didn't know what time it was,


Then I met you.


Oh, what a lovely time it was,


How sublime it was too!





I didn't know what day it was,


You held my hand.


Warm like the month of May it was,


And I'll say it was grand.





Grand to be alive, to be young,


To be mad, to be yours alone!


Grand to see your face, feel your touch,


Hear your voice say I'm all your own.





I didn't know what year it was,


Life was no prize.


I wanted love and here it was


Shining out of your eyes.





I'm wise,


And I know what time it is now.
Reply:EBB wrote some beautiful stuff.





However, "Phenomenal Woman," by Maya Angelou came to me at a time when I needed it most. I was in the midst of making stupid decisions--being a grown-up acting like a stupid kid--and had no direction or goals in life. "Phenomenal Woman" helped me define who I wanted to be as a woman (which I had never done before) and I try to live up to that. This poem helped me through childbearing, child rearing, a Bachelor's program, a Master's program, and my marriage. *sniff*
Reply:OMG Actually mine is also "To his Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvel. But this one is also cute (and shorter)





The Constant Lover








Out upon it, I have lov'd


Three whole days together;


And am like to love three more,


If it prove fair weather.





Time shall molt away his wings


Ere he shall discover


In such whole wide world again


Such a constant lover.





But the spite on't is, no praise


Is due at all to me:


Love with me had made no stays


Had it any been but she.





Had it any been but she


And that very face,


There had been at least ere this


A dozen dozen in her place.





Sir John Suckling
Reply:Woman





she wanted to be a blade


of grass amid the fields


but he wouldn’t agree


to be the dandelion





she wanted to be a robin singing


through the leaves


but he refused to be


her tree





she spun herself into a web


and looking for a place to rest


turned to him


but he stood straight


declining to be her corner





she tried to be a book


but he wouldn’t read





she turned herself into a bulb


but he wouldn’t let her grow





she decided to become


a woman


and though he still refused


to be a man


she decided it was all


right





Nikki Giovanni
Reply:John Clare


To Mary(by John Clare)











I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,


And yet thou art not there;


I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,


And press the common air.


Thy eyes are gazing upon mine,


When thou art out of sight;


My lips are always touching thine,


At morning, noon, and night.





I think and speak of other things


To keep my mind at rest:


But still to thee my memory clings


Like love in woman's breast.


I hide it from the world's wide eye,


And think and speak contrary;


But soft the wind comes from the sky,


And whispers tales of Mary.





The night wind whispers in my ear,


The moons shines in my face;


A burden still of chilling fear


I find in every place.


The breeze is whispering in the bush,


And the dews fall from the tree,


All sighing on, and will not hush,


Some pleasant tales of thee.
Reply:The Highwayman


by Alfred Noyes





THE wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,


The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,


The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,


And the highwayman came riding--


Riding--riding--


The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.





He'd a French ****** hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;


He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.


They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!


And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--


His rapier hilt a-twinkle--


His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.





Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,


He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,


He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there


But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--


Bess, the landlord's daughter--


Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.





Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked


Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--


His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,


But he loved the landlord's daughter--


The landlord's black-eyed daughter;


Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:





"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,


But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.


Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,


Then look for me by moonlight,


Watch for me by moonlight,


I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."





He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,


But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand


As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,


Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight


(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),


And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.





He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.


And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,


When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,


The redcoat troops came marching--


Marching--marching--


King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.





They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,


But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.


Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;


There was Death at every window,


And Hell at one dark window,


For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.





They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!


They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!


"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,


"Look for me by moonlight,


Watch for me by moonlight,


I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."





She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!


She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!


They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,


Till, on the stroke of midnight,


Cold on the stroke of midnight,


The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!





The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;


Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.


She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,


For the road lay bare in the moonlight,


Blank and bare in the moonlight,


And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.





Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;


Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?


Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,


The highwayman came riding--


Riding--riding--


The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.





Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!


Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!


Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,


Then her finger moved in the moonlight--


Her musket shattered the moonlight--


Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.





He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood


Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!


Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear


How Bess, the landlord's daughter,


The landlord's black-eyed daughter,


Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.





Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,


With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!


Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat


When they shot him down in the highway,


Down like a dog in the highway,


And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.





And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,


When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,


When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,


The highwayman comes riding--


Riding--riding--


The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.





Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,


He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,


He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there


But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--


Bess, the landlord's daughter--


Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Reply:Because you're you





Because you're you


that means alot


Because you share


the things you've got





Your helping hand


is always shown


even when someone unknown


asks you for help in their distress


has put you in an awful mess





That's why me


and other too


love you so much


Because you're you.





:)
Reply:annabel lee by edgar allen poe
Reply:BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS





by Thomas Moore





Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,


Which I gaze on so fondly to-day


Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,


Like fairy-gifts fading away,


Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,


Let thy loveliness fade as it will,


And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart


Would entwine itself verdantly still.





It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,


And they cheeks unprofaned by a tear,


That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,


To which time will but make thee more dear;


No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,


But as truly loves on to the close,


As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,


The same look which she turned when he rose.
Reply:Shakespeare, pick one
Reply:Rudyard Kipling


The Thousandth Man





One man in a thousand, Solomon says,


Will stick more close than a brother.


And it's worth while seeking him half your days


If you find him before the other.


Nine nundred and ninety-nine depend


On what the world sees in you,


But the Thousandth man will stand your friend


With the whole round world agin you.





'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show


Will settle the finding for 'ee.


Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go


By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.


But if he finds you and you find him.


The rest of the world don't matter;


For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim


With you in any water.





You can use his purse with no more talk


Than he uses yours for his spendings,


And laugh and meet in your daily walk


As though there had been no lendings.


Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call


For silver and gold in their dealings;


But the Thousandth Man h's worth 'em all,


Because you can show him your feelings.





His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,


In season or out of season.


Stand up and back it in all men's sight --


With that for your only reason!


Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide


The shame or mocking or laughter,


But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side


To the gallows-foot -- and after!
Reply:All by Pablo Neruda!!
Reply:My favorite too!
Reply:This one:








My reason depends on your every daily moment of breath.


For each second of a breath, I birth my existence.


You create a need of survival as long as you live.


In your playful and inspiring smiles, I engrave my most powerful emotion.


Your movements leave me speechless.


There is no need for variety in your arms.


You are my world.


And in your eyes, only god can reside.


For I have never seen such purity as this in any form of life.


From the first birth of your cry


to the last time I ever imagine again.


I eternally, will love you.
Reply:What a grand thing, to be loved!


What a grander thing still, to love!
Reply:Love Sonnet XI


By Pablo Neruda





I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.


Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.


Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day


I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.





I hunger for your sleek laugh,


your hands the color of a savage harvest,


hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,


I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.





I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,


the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,


I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,





and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,


hunting for you, for your hot heart,


like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Reply:W.B. Yeats "When You Are Old"





WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep


And nodding by the fire, take down this book,


And slowly read, and dream of the soft look


Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;





How many loved your moments of glad grace,


And loved your beauty with love false or true;


But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,


And loved the sorrows of your changing face.





And bending down beside the glowing bars,


Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled


And paced upon the mountains overhead,


And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

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