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Best Famous First Love Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous First Love poems. This is a select list of the best famous First Love poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous First Love poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of first love poems.

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Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

Tears Idle Tears

  Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!


Written by Arthur Hugh Clough | |

There Is No God the Wicked Sayeth

 "There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing.
" "There is no God," a youngster thinks, "or really, if there may be, He surely did not mean a man Always to be a baby.
" "There is no God, or if there is," The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny If He should take it ill in me To make a little money.
" "Whether there be," the rich man says, "It matters very little, For I and mine, thank somebody, Are not in want of victual.
" Some others, also, to themselves, Who scarce so much as doubt it, Think there is none, when they are well, And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath The shadow of the steeple; The parson and the parson's wife, And mostly married people; Youths green and happy in first love, So thankful for illusion; And men caught out in what the world Calls guilt, in first confusion; And almost everyone when age, Disease, or sorrows strike him, Inclines to think there is a God, Or something very like Him.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET LXXIX.

SONNET LXXIX.

Quella fenestra, ove l' un sol si vede.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.

That window where my sun is often seen
Refulgent, and the world's at morning's hours;
And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,
And the short days reveal a clouded scene;
That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,
My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;
Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,
And her feet press the paths or herbage green:
The place where Love assail'd me with success;
And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,
[Pg 96]Revives the keen remembrance every year;
With looks and words, that o'er me have preserved
A power no length of time can render less,
Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.
Penn.
That window where my sun is ever seen,
Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none;
And that where still, when Boreas rude has blown
In the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:
The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,
Pensive and parleying with herself alone:
Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,
Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:
The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest,
And the new season which, from year to year,
Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:
The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,
Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd,
All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.
Macgregor.


More great poems below...

Written by | |

Song of Taj Mahomed

   'T is eight miles out and eight miles in,
        Just at the break of morn.
   'T is ice without and flame within,
        To gain a kiss at dawn!

   Far, where the Lilac Hills arise
        Soft from the misty plain,
   A lone enchanted hollow lies
        Where I at last drew rein.

   Midwinter grips this lonely land,
        This stony, treeless waste,
   Where East, due East, across the sand,
        We fly in fevered haste.

   Pull up! the East will soon be red,
        The wild duck westward fly,
   And make above my anxious head,
        Triangles in the sky.

   Like wind we go; we both are still
        So young; all thanks to Fate!
   (It cuts like knives, this air so chill,)
        Dear God! if I am late!

   Behind us, wrapped in mist and sleep
        The Ruined City lies,
   (Although we race, we seem to creep!)
        While lighter grow the skies.

   Eight miles out only, eight miles in,
        Good going all the way;
   But more and more the clouds begin
        To redden into day.

   And every snow-tipped peak grows pink
        An iridescent gem!
   My heart beats quick, with joy, to think
        How I am nearing them!

   As mile on mile behind us falls,
        Till, Oh, delight!  I see
   My Heart's Desire, who softly calls
        Across the gloom to me.

   The utter joy of that First Love
        No later love has given,
   When, while the skies grew light above,
        We entered into Heaven.


Written by Wystan Hugh (W H) Auden | |

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.
'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.
'
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.
'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.
'
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.


Written by George Meredith | |

Modern Love XLVI: At Last We Parley

 At last we parley: we so strangely dumb
In such a close communion! It befell
About the sounding of the Matin-bell,
And lo! her place was vacant, and the hum
Of loneliness was round me.
Then I rose, And my disordered brain did guide my foot To that old wood where our first love-salute Was interchanged: the source of many throes! There did I see her, not alone.
I moved Toward her, and made proffer of my arm.
She took it simply, with no rude alarm; And that disturbing shadow passed reproved.
I felt the pained speech coming, and declared My firm belief in her, ere she could speak.
A ghastly morning came into her cheek, While with a widening soul on me she stared.


Written by George Meredith | |

Modern Love: XLVI

 At last we parley: we so strangely dumb
In such a close communion! It befell
About the sounding of the Matin-bell,
And lo! her place was vacant, and the hum
Of loneliness was round me.
Then I rose, And my disordered brain did guide my foot To that old wood where our first love-salute Was interchanged: the source of many throes! There did I see her, not alone.
I moved Toward her, and made proffer of my arm.
She took it simply, with no rude alarm; And that disturbing shadow passed reproved.
I felt the pained speech coming, and declared My firm belief in her, ere she could speak.
A ghastly morning came into her cheek, While with a widening soul on me she stared.


Written by Thomas Moore | |

Loves Young Dream

 Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright 
My heart's chain wove; 
When my dream of life, from morn till night, 
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream: No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blush'd to hear The one loved name.
No, -- that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste.
'Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light, tht ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream: Oh! 'twas light that n'er can shine again On life's dull stream.


Written by Henry Vaughan | |

The Retreat

 1 Happy those early days, when I
2 Shin'd in my angel-infancy!
3 Before I understood this place
4 Appointed for my second race,
5 Or taught my soul to fancy ought
6 But a white, celestial thought;
7 When yet I had not walk'd above
8 A mile or two from my first love,
9 And looking back (at that short space)
10 Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
11 When on some gilded cloud or flow'r
12 My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
13 And in those weaker glories spy
14 Some shadows of eternity;
15 Before I taught my tongue to wound
16 My conscience with a sinful sound,
17 Or had the black art to dispense,
18 A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense,
19 But felt through all this fleshly dress
20 Bright shoots of everlastingness.
21 O how I long to travel back, 22 And tread again that ancient track! 23 That I might once more reach that plain, 24 Where first I left my glorious train, 25 From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees 26 That shady city of palm trees.
27 But ah! my soul with too much stay 28 Is drunk, and staggers in the way.
29 Some men a forward motion love, 30 But I by backward steps would move; 31 And when this dust falls to the urn, 32 In that state I came, return.


Written by Stanley Kunitz | |

First Love

 At his incipient sun 
The ice of twenty winters broke, 
Crackling, in her eyes.
Her mirroring, still mind, That held the world (made double) calm, Went fluid, and it ran.
There was a stir of music, Mixed with flowers, in her blood; A swift impulsive balm From obscure roots; Gold bees of clinging light Swarmed in her brow.
Her throat is full of songs, She hums, she is sensible of wings Growing on her heart.
She is a tree in spring Trembling with the hope of leaves, Of which the leaves are tongues.


Written by Philip Levine | |

In The New Sun

 Filaments of light 
slant like windswept rain.
The orange seller hawks into the sky, a man with a hat stops below my window and shakes his tassels.
Awake in Tetuan, the room filling with the first colors, and water running in a tub.
* A row of sparkling carp iced in the new sun, odor of first love, of childhood, the fingers held to the nose, or hours while the clock hummed.
The fat woman in the orange smock places tiny greens at mouth and tail as though she remembered or yearned instead for forests, deep floors of needles, and the hushed breath.
* Blue nosed cannisters as fat as barrels silently slipping by.
"Nitro," he says.
On the roof he shows me where Reuban lay down to fuck-off and never woke.
"We're takin little whiffs all the time.
" Slivers of glass work their way through the canvas gloves and burn.
Lifting my black glasses in the chemical light, I stop to squeeze one out and the asbestos glows like a hand in moonlight or a face in dreams.
* Pinpoints of blue along the arms, light rushing down across the breasts missing the dry shadows under them.
She stretches and rises on her knees and smiles and far down to the sudden embroidery of curls the belly smiles that three times stretched slowly moonward in a hill of child.
* Sun through the cracked glass, bartender at the cave end peeling a hard-boiled egg.
Four in the afternoon, the dogs asleep, the river must bridge seven parched flats to Cordoba by nightfall.
It will never make it.
I will never make it.
Like the old man in gray corduroy asleep under the stifled fan, I have no more moves, stranded on an empty board.
* From the high hill behind Ford Rouge, we could see the ore boats pulling down river, the rail yards, and the smoking mountain.
East, the city spreading toward St.
Clair, miles of houses, factories, shops burning in the still white snow.
"Share this with your brother," he said, and it was always winter and a dark snow.


Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

The Princess: A Medley: Tears Idle Tears

 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a summering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!


Written by Rudyard Kipling | |

The Virginity

 Try as he will, no man breaks wholly loose
 From his first love, no matter who she be.
Oh, was there ever sailor free to choose, That didn't settle somewhere near the sea? Myself, it don't excite me nor amuse To watch a pack o' shipping on the sea; But I can understand my neighbour's views From certain things which have occured to me.
Men must keep touch with things they used to use To earn their living, even when they are free; And so come back upon the least excuse -- Same as the sailor settled near the sea.
He knows he's never going on no cruise -- He knows he's done and finished with the sea; And yet he likes to feel she's there to use -- If he should ask her -- as she used to be.
Even though she cost him all he had to lose, Even though she made him sick to hear or see, Still, what she left of him will mostly choose Her skirts to sit by.
How comes such to be? Parsons in pulpits, tax-payers in pews, Kings on your thrones, you know as well as me, We've only one virginity to lose, And where we lost it there our hearts will be!


Written by William Butler Yeats | |

A Dream Of Death

 I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand,
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until I carved these words:
She was more beautiful than thy first love,
But now lies under boards.


Written by William Butler Yeats | |

A Man Young And Old: I. First Love

 Though nurtured like the sailing moon
In beauty's murderous brood,
She walked awhile and blushed awhile
And on my pathway stood
Until I thought her body bore
A heart of flesh and blood.
But since I laid a hand thereon And found a heart of stone I have attempted many things And not a thing is done, For every hand is lunatic That travels on the moon.
She smiled and that transfigured me And left me but a lout, Maundering here, and maundering there, Emptier of thought Than the heavenly circuit of its stars When the moon sails out.