Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Passion Poems

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

Search for the best famous Passion poems, articles about Passion poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Passion poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

How Do I Love Thee?

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 candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love 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.


by Ben Jonson | |

His Excuse for Loving

Let it not your wonder move, 
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers.
Poets, though divine, are men; Some have loved as old again.
And it is not always face, Clothes, or fortune gives the grace, Or the feature, or the youth; But the language and the truth, With the ardor and the passion, Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then would hear the story, First, prepare you to be sorry That you never knew till now Either whom to love or how; But be glad as soon with me When you hear that this is she Of whose beauty it was sung, She shall make the old man young, Keep the middle age at stay, And let nothing hide decay, Till she be the reason why All the world for love may die.


by Oscar Wilde | |

Hélas

To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and virelay,
Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God.
Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance— And must I lose a soul's inheritance?


by Wang Wei | |

Stopping at Incense Storing Temple

 Not know incense store temple 
Few enter cloud peaks 
Ancient trees no person path 
Deep hills what place bell 
Spring sound choke sheer rock 
Sun colour cold green pines 
Dusk empty pool bend 
Peace meditation control fierce dragon 


I did not know the incense storing temple, 
I walked a few miles into the clouded peaks.
No man on the path between the ancient trees, A bell rang somewhere deep among the hills.
A spring sounded choked, running down steep rocks, The green pines chilled the sunlight's coloured rays.
Come dusk, at the bend of a deserted pool, Through meditation I controlled passion's dragon.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

La Passion Vaincue

 On the Banks of the Severn a desperate Maid 
(Whom some Shepherd, neglecting his Vows, had betray'd,) 
Stood resolving to banish all Sense of the Pain, 
And pursue, thro' her Death, a Revenge on the Swain.
Since the Gods, and my Passion, at once he defies; Since his Vanity lives, whilst my Character dies; No more (did she say) will I trifle with Fate, But commit to the Waves both my Love and my Hate.
And now to comply with that furious Desire, Just ready to plunge, and alone to expire, Some Reflection on Death, and its Terrors untry'd, Some Scorn for the Shepherd, some Flashings of Pride At length pull'd her back, and she cry'd, Why this Strife, Since the Swains are so Many, and I've but One Life?


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Phoenix

 A Female Friend advis'd a Swain 
(Whose Heart she wish'd at ease) 
Make Love thy Pleasure, not thy Pain, 
Nor let it deeply seize.
Beauty, where Vanities abound, No serious Passion claims; Then, 'till a Phoenix can be found, Do not admit the Flames.
But griev'd She finds, that his Replies (Since prepossess'd when Young) Take all their Hints from Silvia's Eyes, None from ARDELIA's Tongue.
Thus, Cupid, of our Aim we miss, Who wou'd unbend thy Bow; And each slight Nymph a Phoenix is, When Love will have it so.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

To A Husband

 This is to the crown and blessing of my life,
The much loved husband of a happy wife;
To him whose constant passion found the art
To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart,
And to the world by tenderest proof discovers
They err, who say that husbands can't be lovers.
With such return of passion, as is due, Daphnis I love, Daphinis my thoughts pursue; Daphnis, my hopes and joys are bounded all in you.
Even I, for Daphnis' and my promise' sake, What I in woman censure, undertake.
But this from love, not vanity proceeds; You know who writes, and I who 'tis that reads.
Judge not my passion by my want of skill: Many love well, though they express it ill; And I your censure could with pleasure bear, Would you but soon return, and speak it here.


by William Henry Davies | |

A Fleeting Passion

 Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, 
Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; 
As quietly and solemnly 
As Life when it is kissing Death.
Now in the silence of the grave, My hand is squeezing that soft breast; While thou dost in such passion lie, It mocks me with its look of rest.
But when the morning comes at last, And we must part, our passions cold, You'll think of some new feather, scarf To buy with my small piece of gold; And I'll be dreaming of green lanes, Where little things with beating hearts Hold shining eyes between the leaves, Till men with horses pass, and carts.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

Songs of Battle

 Old as the world--no other things so old; 
Nay, older than the world, else, how had sprung 
Such lusty strength in them when earth was young?-- 
Stand valor and its passion hot and bold, 
Insatiate of battle.
How, else, told Blind men, born blind, that red was fitting tongue Mute, eloquent, to show how trumpets rung When armies charged adn battle-flags unfurled? Who sings of valor speaks for life, for death, Beyond all death, and long as life is life, in rippled waves the eternal air hs breath Eternal bears to stir all noble strife.
Dead Homer from his lost and vanished grave Keeps battle glorious still and soldiers brave.


by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

A Minor Poet

 I am a shell.
From me you shall not hear The splendid tramplings of insistent drums, The orbed gold of the viol's voice that comes, Heavy with radiance, languorous and clear.
Yet, if you hold me close against the ear, A dim, far whisper rises clamorously, The thunderous beat and passion of the sea, The slow surge of the tides that drown the mere.
Others with subtle hands may pluck the strings, Making even Love in music audible, And earth one glory.
I am but a shell That moves, not of itself, and moving sings; Leaving a fragrance, faint as wine new-shed, A tremulous murmur from great days long dead.


by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

Dinner in a Quick Lunch Room

 Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn, 
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars; 
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars 
Fantastically alive with subtle scorn; 
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters, 
Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere; 
Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear, 
A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters! 

Over the salad let the woodwinds moan; 
Then the green silence of many watercresses; 
Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone; 
Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses; 
Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood 
And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

New England

 Here where the wind is always north-north-east
And children learn to walk on frozen toes,
Wonder begets an envy of all those
Who boil elsewhere with such a lyric yeast
Of love that you will hear them at a feast
Where demons would appeal for some repose,
Still clamoring where the chalice overflows
And crying wildest who have drunk the least.
Passion is here a soilure of the wits, We're told, and Love a cross for them to bear; Joy shivers in the corner where she knits And Conscience always has the rocking-chair, Cheerful as when she tortured into fits The first cat that was ever killed by Care.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Charles Carvilles Eyes

 A melanholy face Charles Carville had,
But not so melancholy as it seemed, 
When once you knew him, for his mouth redeemed 
His insufficient eyes, forever sad: 
In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad,
Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed; 
His mouth was all of him that ever beamed, 
His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad.
He never was a fellow that said much, And half of what he did say was not heard By many of us: we were out of touch With all his whims and all his theories Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his Might speak them.
Then we heard them, every word.


by George William Russell | |

Light and Dark

 NOT the soul that’s whitest
 Wakens love the sweetest:
When the heart is lightest
 Oft the charm is fleetest.
While the snow-frail maiden, Waits the time of learning, To the passion laden Turn with eager yearning.
While the heart is burning Heaven with earth is banded: To the stars returning Go not empty-handed.
Ah, the snow-frail maiden! Somehow truth has missed her, Left the heart unladen For its burdened sister.


by George William Russell | |

Mystery

 WHY does this sudden passion smite me?
I stretch my hands, all blind to see:
I need the lamp of the world to light me,
 Lead me and set me free.
Something a moment seemed to stoop from The night with cool, cool breath on my face: Or did the hair of the twilight droop from Its silent wandering ways? About me in the thick wood netted The wizard glow looks human-wise; And over the tree-tops barred and fretted Ponders with strange old eyes.
The tremulous lips of air blow by me And hymn their time-old melody: Its secret strain comes nigh and nigh me: “Ah, brother, come with me; “For here the ancient mother lingers To dip her hands in the diamond dew, And lave thine ache with cloud-cool fingers Till sorrow die from you.


by George William Russell | |

The Silence of Love

 I COULD praise you once with beautiful words ere you came
And entered my life with love in a wind of flame.
I could lure with a song from afar my bird to its nest, But with pinions drooping together silence is best.
In the land of beautiful silence the winds are laid, And life grows quietly one in the cloudy shade.
I will not waken the passion that sleeps in the heart, For the winds that blew us together may blow us apart.
Fear not the stillness; for doubt and despair shall cease With the gentle voices guiding us into peace.
Our dreams will change as they pass through the gates of gold, And Quiet, the tender shepherd, shall keep the fold.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Attraction

 The meadow and the mountain with desire
Gazed on each other, till a fierce unrest
Surged ‘neath the meadow’s seemingly calm breast,
And all the mountain’s fissures ran with fire.
A mighty river rolled between them there.
What could the mountain do but gaze and burn? What could the meadow do but look and yearn, And gem its bosom to conceal despair? Their seething passion agitated space, Till lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook, The river fled: the meadow leaped, and took The leaning mountain in a close embrace.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Artists Life

 Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,
mad with melody, rhythm--rife
From the very first to the final note,
Give me his "Artist's Life!"

It stirs my blood to my finger ends,
Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest,
And all that is sweetest and saddest blends
Together within my breast.
It brings back that night in the dim arcade, In love's sweet morning and life's best prime, When the great brass orchestra played and played, And set our thoughts to rhyme.
It brings back that Winter of mad delights, Of leaping pulses and tripping feet, And those languid moon-washed Summer nights When we heard the band in the street.
It brings back rapture and glee and glow, It brings back passion and pain and strife, And so of all the waltzes I know, Give me the "Artist's Life.
" For it is so full of the dear old time-- So full of the dear friends I knew.
And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme, I am always finding--you.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Desolation

 I think that the bitterest sorrow or pain
Of love unrequited, or cold death’s woe, 
Is sweet, compared to that hour when we know
That some grand passion is on the wane.
When we see that the glory, and glow, and grace Which lent a splendour to night and day, Are surely fading, and showing grey And dull groundwork of the commonplace.
When fond expressions on dull ears fall, When the hands clasp calmly without one thrill, When we cannot muster by force of will The old emotions that came at call.
When the dream has vanished we fain would keep, When the heart, like a watch, runs out of gear, And all the savour goes out of the year, Oh, then is the time – if we could – to weep! But no tears soften this dull, pale woe; We must sit and face it with dry, sad eyes.
If we seek to hold it, the swifter joy flies – We can only be passive, and let it go.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Refuted

 ‘Anticipation is sweeter than realisation.
’ It may be, yet I have not found it so.
In those first golden dreams of future fame I did not find such happiness as came When toil was crowned with triumph.
Now I know My words have recognition, and will go Straight to some listening heart, my early aim, To win the idle glory of a name, Pales like a candle in the noonday’s glow.
So with the deeper joys of which I dreamed: Life yields more rapture than did childhood’s fancies, And each year brings more pleasure than I waited.
Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed, And, all beyond youth’s passion-hued romances, Love is more perfect than anticipated.