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Best Famous Romance Poems

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

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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 John Keats | |

When I have Fears that I may cease to be

WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain  
Before high pil`d books in charact'ry  
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; 
When I behold upon the night's starr'd face 5 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance  
And feel that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; 
And when I feel fair creature of an hour! 
That I shall never look upon thee more 10 
Never have relish in the faery power 
Of unreflecting love;¡ªthen on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone and think  
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.


by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet 01

 Sidney, in whom the heyday of romance 
Came to its precious and most perfect flower, 
Whether you tourneyed with victorious lance 
Or brought sweet roundelays to Stella's bower, 
I give myself some credit for the way 
I have kept clean of what enslaves and lowers, 
Shunned the ideals of our present day 
And studied those that were esteemed in yours; 
For, turning from the mob that buys Success 
By sacrificing all Life's better part, 
Down the free roads of human happiness 
I frolicked, poor of purse but light of heart, 
And lived in strict devotion all along 
To my three idols -- Love and Arms and Song.


by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet 12

 Clouds rosy-tinted in the setting sun, 
Depths of the azure eastern sky between, 
Plains where the poplar-bordered highways run, 
Patched with a hundred tints of brown and green, -- 
Beauty of Earth, when in thy harmonies 
The cannon's note has ceased to be a part, 
I shall return once more and bring to these 
The worship of an undivided heart.
Of those sweet potentialities that wait For my heart's deep desire to fecundate I shall resume the search, if Fortune grants; And the great cities of the world shall yet Be golden frames for me in which to set New masterpieces of more rare romance.


by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet V

 A tide of beauty with returning May 
Floods the fair city; from warm pavements fume 
Odors endeared; down avenues in bloom 
The chestnut-trees with phallic spires are gay.
Over the terrace flows the thronged cafe; The boulevards are streams of hurrying sound; And through the streets, like veins when they abound, The lust for pleasure throbs itself away.
Here let me live, here let me still pursue Phantoms of bliss that beckon and recede, -- Thy strange allurements, City that I love, Maze of romance, where I have followed too The dream Youth treasures of its dearest need And stars beyond thy towers bring tidings of.


by Alan Seeger | |

Written in a Volume of the Comtesse de Noailles

 Be my companion under cool arcades 
That frame some drowsy street and dazzling square 
Beyond whose flowers and palm-tree promenades 
White belfries burn in the blue tropic air.
Lie near me in dim forests where the croon Of wood-doves sounds and moss-banked water flows, Or musing late till the midsummer moon Breaks through some ruined abbey's empty rose.
Sweetest of those to-day whose pious hands Tend the sequestered altar of Romance, Where fewer offerings burn, and fewer kneel, Pour there your passionate beauty on my heart, And, gladdening such solitudes, impart How sweet the fellowship of those who feel!


by Alan Seeger | |

Virginibus Puerisque . . .

 I care not that one listen if he lives 
For aught but life's romance, nor puts above 
All life's necessities the need to love, 
Nor counts his greatest wealth what Beauty gives.
But sometime on an afternoon in spring, When dandelions dot the fields with gold, And under rustling shade a few weeks old 'Tis sweet to stroll and hear the bluebirds sing, Do you, blond head, whom beauty and the power Of being young and winsome have prepared For life's last privilege that really pays, Make the companion of an idle hour These relics of the time when I too fared Across the sweet fifth lustrum of my days.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

O sing fair lady when with me...

 O sing, fair lady, when with me
Sad songs of Georgia no more:
They bring into my memory
Another life, a distant shore.
Your beautiful, your cruel tune Brings to my memory, alas, The steppe, the night - and with the moon Lines of a far, unhappy lass.
Forgetting at the sight of you That shadow fateful, shadow dear, I hear you singing - and anew I picture it before me, here.
O sing, fair lady, when with me Sad songs of Georgia no more: They bring into my memory Another life, a distant shore.
(A Georgian Romance) Translated by: Genia Gurarie, 10/29/95 Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.


by Oscar Wilde | |

HELAS!

 To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which can 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 Liam Wilkinson | |

THIN VOLUMES

 Then there’s the man
who comes in every Saturday
to loiter in Romance.
His face may be milk-white but in those hot aisles his cheeks glow to the pink of the spines.
In a panic-climax he seizes six or seven and fiddles impatiently as I stamp them with a date, before he makes his exit, sniffing like a beast at the jackets.
When does a man find the dregs of his fantasies in the scent of hand-cream still lingering on thin volumes? Is it the erotica inside or out? Where the book might have ended up in those sunlit suburban semis? Now I’ve taken to washing the covers before Saturday comes to preserve the last of those ladies’ most private passions.


by Robert William Service | |

The Lottery

 "Young fellow, listen to a friend:
Beware of wedlock - 'tis a gamble,
It's MAN who holds the losing end
In every matrimonial scramble.
" "Young lady, marriage mostly is A cruel cross of hope's concealing.
A rarity is wedded bliss And WOMAN gets the dirty dealing.
" .
.
.
Such my advice to man and maid, But though they harken few will take it.
The parson plies his merry trade The marriage seems much what you make it.
If Pa or Ma had counsel sought Of me whose locks today are hoary, And feared to tie the nuptial knot - Would I be here to tell the story? Nay, lad and lass, don't flout romance, Nor heed this cynical old sinner; Like bold Columbus take a chance, And may your number be a winner.
Far be it from me to advise, But in the marital relation The safest bet is Compromise And Mutual Consideration.


by Robert William Service | |

Dark Glasses

 Sweet maiden, why disguise
The beauty of your eyes
 With glasses black?
Although I'm well aware
That you are more than fair,
 Allure you lack.
For as I stare at you I ask if brown or blue Your optics are? But though I cannot see, I'm sure that each must be Bright as a star.
That may be green or grey, 'Tis very hard to say, Or violet; The lovelight in their glow Alas, I'll never know, To my regret.
In some rhyme-book I've read, A lady bard has said, And deemed it true, Men will not bite the necks Of sweeties who wear specs,-- Young man, would you? But though they balk romance, Columbus took a chance, And so would I; Even with orbs unseen I'd fain make you my queen And you en-sky.
Alas I see you go, And I will never know Your pupils tint; So o'er a lonely drink I force myself to think: Damsel, you squint!


by Robert William Service | |

Confetti In The Wind

 He wrote a letter in his mind
 To answer one a maid had sent;
He sought the fitting word to find,
 As on by hill and rill he went.
By bluebell wood and hawthorn lane, The cadence sweet and silken phrase He incubated in his brain For days and days.
He wrote his letter on a page Of paper with a satin grain; It did not ring, so in a rage He tore it up and tried again.
Time after time he drafted it; He polished it all through the night; He tuned and pruned till bit by bit He got it right.
He took his letter to the post, Yet long he held it in his hand.
Strangely his mood had veered, almost Reversed,--he could not understand.
The girl was vague, the words were vain; April romance had come to grief .
.
.
He tore his letter up again,-- Oh blest relief!


by Robert William Service | |

Bindle Stiff

 When I was brash and gallant-gay
Just fifty years ago,
I hit the ties and beat my way
From Maine to Mexico;
For though to Glasgow gutter bred
A hobo heart had I,
And followed where adventure led,
Beneath a brazen sky.
And as I tramped the railway track I owned a single shirt; Like canny Scot I bought it black So's not to show the dirt; A handkerchief held all my gear, My razor and my comb; I was a freckless lad, I fear, With all the world for home.
Yet oh I thought the life was grand And loved my liberty! Romance was my bed-fellow and The stars my company.
And I would think, each diamond dawn, "How I have forged my fate! Where are the Gorbals and the Tron, And where the Gallowgate?" Oh daft was I to wander wild, And seek the Trouble Trail, As weakly as a wayward child, And darkly doomed to fail .
.
.
Aye, bindle-stiff I hit the track Just fifty years ago .
.
.
Yet now .
.
.
I drive my Cadillac From Maine to Mexico.


by Robert William Service | |

Weary Waitress

 Her smile ineffably is sweet,
 Devinely she is slim;
Yet oh how weary are her feet,
 How aches her every limb!
Thank God it's near to closing time,
 --Merciful midnight chime.
Then in her mackintosh she'll go Up seven flights of stairs, And on her bed her body throw, Too tired to say her prayers; Yet not too sleepy to forget Her cheap alarm to set.
She dreams .
.
.
That lonely bank-clerk boy Who comes each day for tea,-- Oh how his eyes light up with joy Her comeliness to see! And yet he is too shy to speak, Far less to touch her cheek.
He dreams .
.
.
If only I were King I'd make of her my Queen.
If I were laureate I'd sing Her loveliness serene.
--How wistfully romance can haunt A city restaurant! For as I watch that pensive pair There stirs within my heart From Arcady an April air That shames the sordid mart: A sense of Spring and singing rills, --Love mid the daffodils.


by Robert William Service | |

Susie

 My daughter Susie, aged two,
 Apes me in every way,
For as my household chores I do
 With brooms she loves to play.
A scrubbing brush to her is dear; Ah! Though my soul it vex, My bunch of cuteness has, I fear, Kitchen complex.
My dream was that she might go far, And play or sing or dance; Aye, even be a movie star Of glamour and romance.
But no more with such hope I think, For now her fondest wish is To draw a chair up to the sink And wash the dishes.
Yet when you put it to a test In ups and downs of life, A maiden's mission may be best To make a good house-wife; To bake, to cook, to knit, to lave: And so I pray that Sue Will keep a happy hearth and have A baby too.


by Robert William Service | |

Katie Drummond

 My Louis loved me oh so well
 And spiered me for his wife;
He would have haled me from the hell
 That was my bawdy life:
The mother of his bairns to be,
 Daftlike he saw in me.
But I, a hizzie of the town Just telt him we must part; Loving too well to drag him down I tore him from my heart: To save the honour of his name I went back to my shame.
They say he soared to starry fame, Romance flowed from his pen; A prince of poets he became, Pride of his fellow men: My breast was pillow for his head, Yet naught of his I've read.
Smoking my cutty pipe the while, In howths of Leith I lag; * My Louis lies in South Sea isle As I a sodden hag Live on .
.
.
Oh Love, by men enskied The day you went--I died.
*R.
L.
S.


by Joyce Kilmer | |

Waverley

 1814-1914

When, on a novel's newly printed page
We find a maudlin eulogy of sin,
And read of ways that harlots wander in,
And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage;
Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage,
Taps on her desk and bids the class begin
To con the problems that have always been
Perplexed mankind's unhappy heritage;
Then in what robes of honor habited
The laureled wizard of the North appears!
Who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the dead,
Made Rose's mirth and Flora's noble tears,
And formed that shining legion at whose head
Rides Waverley, triumphant o'er the years!


by Robert Graves | |

The Last Post

 The bugler sent a call of high romance— 
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, “God, if it’s this for me next time in France… O spare the phantom bugle as I lie Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, Dead in a row with the other broken ones Lying so stiff and still under the sky, Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.


by Vachel Lindsay | |

To Lady Jane

 Romance was always young.
You come today Just eight years old With marvellous dark hair.
Younger than Dante found you When you turned His heart into the way That found the heavenly stair.
Perhaps we must be strangers.
I confess My soul this hour is Dante's, And your care Should be for dolls Whose painted hands caress Your marvellous dark hair.
Romance, with moonflower face And morning eyes, And lips whose thread of scarlet prophesies The canticles of a coming king unknown, Remember, when you join him On his throne, Even me, your far off troubadour, And wear For me some trifling rose Beneath your veil, Dying a royal death, Happy and pale, Choked by the passion, The wonder and the snare, The glory and despair That still will haunt and own Your marvellous dark hair.