Favourite Love Poem(s)

[heslopian]

What is/are your favourite love poem(s)?

Here's mine, Never Again Would Birds' Song be the Same, by Robert Frost:

He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Admittedly an eloquence so soft
Could only have had an influence on birds

When call or laughter carried it aloft.
Be that as may be, she was in their song.
Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed
Had now persisted in the woods so long
That probably it never would be lost.
Never again would birds' song be the same.
And to do that to birds was why she came.

[billy]

i feel embarressed a little but my faves are the ones i wrote for my partner, all crappy as a hell of course but i think she loved them (more for the fact i wrote them than what i wrote in them)

those nibblets aside for me it has to be the two sonnets ;

How Do I Love Thee By Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

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 every day’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 the 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.

and;

She Walks In Beauty By George Gordon Byron.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o’er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o’er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent;
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

and maybe;

undressing Anne Sexton by jack; aka Heslopian.

we meet on the forgotten beach,
you armed with your kill me pills,
and I your book of rhymes.
a rowboat idles at the shore,
as tiny as a child's toy,
or a socialite's poodle.
you wear white, like Dickinson,
but not to proclaim chastity, for
the dress has no sleeves,
and reaches your knees,
and perched between
two thin fingers, like a great
conductor's wand, a cigarette
glows in the harsh, dusky light,
waning like a gas lamp
above the remote sands.

idiosyncratic metaphors
fall from your lips
like sweet faux pas,
as you stumble
near to me, a flightless robin,
your breath a gin
distillery, and when I touch
your ribs you flinch.
I grasp the shoulder straps,
you raise your arms,
the dress collapses
at your feet, like a peasant
girl. I see the bruises,
sheer black welts,
from when you dived
beneath his cart,
and barely screamed
as your bones broke.

always in love with Death,
the one man who played
hard to get, would not be
wooed those early years,
but offered you his hand
that day inside the garage
of the gas.
I envy your relationship.

you stand in your undergarments, cold,
I lay you on the yellow grains,
remove your cigarette, and flick it near
the shushing tide. like an audience filling
each bare theatre seat, the stars emerge
through their veil of black, and I undo
your soft white bra, spread your thighs
to reach your knickers, pure white lace,
not gossamer, but seductive
nonetheless.

I've discovered you so many times,
naked as a monk's conscience;
you're my mother, my mistress,
my incestuous dear,
my teacher of death
and of love and of fear.

[heslopian]

i feel embarressed a little but my faves are the ones i wrote for my partner, all crappy as a hell of course but i think she loved them (more for the fact i wrote them than what i wrote in them)

those nibblets aside for me it has to be the two sonnets ;

How Do I Love Thee By Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

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 every day’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 the 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.

and;

She Walks In Beauty By George Gordon Byron.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o’er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o’er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent;
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

and maybe;

undressing Anne Sexton by jack; aka Heslopian.

we meet on the forgotten beach,
you armed with your kill me pills,
and I your book of rhymes.
a rowboat idles at the shore,
as tiny as a child's toy,
or a socialite's poodle.
you wear white, like Dickinson,
but not to proclaim chastity, for
the dress has no sleeves,
and reaches your knees,
and perched between
two thin fingers, like a great
conductor's wand, a cigarette
glows in the harsh, dusky light,
waning like a gas lamp
above the remote sands.

idiosyncratic metaphors
fall from your lips
like sweet faux pas,
as you stumble
near to me, a flightless robin,
your breath a gin
distillery, and when I touch
your ribs you flinch.
I grasp the shoulder straps,
you raise your arms,
the dress collapses
at your feet, like a peasant
girl. I see the bruises,
sheer black welts,
from when you dived
beneath his cart,
and barely screamed
as your bones broke.

always in love with Death,
the one man who played
hard to get, would not be
wooed those early years,
but offered you his hand
that day inside the garage
of the gas.
I envy your relationship.

you stand in your undergarments, cold,
I lay you on the yellow grains,
remove your cigarette, and flick it near
the shushing tide. like an audience filling
each bare theatre seat, the stars emerge
through their veil of black, and I undo
your soft white bra, spread your thighs
to reach your knickers, pure white lace,
not gossamer, but seductive
nonetheless.

I've discovered you so many times,
naked as a monk's conscience;
you're my mother, my mistress,
my incestuous dear,
my teacher of death
and of love and of fear.

That I should even be considered alongside Byron and Browning is praise worth fapping too! (Not that I am... yet.) Thanks Billy

[Bianca Alabaster]

wow, that's a great poem. mysterious indeed. (the one done by Jack). My favorite writer is Frost, of course.