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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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Written by Oscar Wilde | Create an image from this poem


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?
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

To the True Romance

 Thy face is far from this our war,
 Our call and counter-cry,
I shall not find Thee quick and kind,
 Nor know Thee till I die,
Enough for me in dreams to see
 And touch Thy garments' hem:
Thy feet have trod so near to God
 I may not follow them.
Through wantonness if men profess They weary of Thy parts, E'en let them die at blasphemy And perish with their arts; But we that love, but we that prove Thine excellence august, While we adore discover more Thee perfect, wise, and just.
Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirred Beyond his belly-need, What is is Thine of fair design In thought and craft and deed; Each stroke aright of toil and fight, That was and that shall be, And hope too high, wherefore we die, Has birth and worth in Thee.
Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee To gild his dross thereby, And knowledge sure that he endure A child until he die -- For to make plain that man's disdain Is but new Beauty's birth -- For to possess in loneliness The joy of all the earth.
As Thou didst teach all lovers speech And Life all mystery, So shalt Thou rule by every school Till love and longing die, Who wast or yet the Lights were set, A whisper in the Void, Who shalt be sung through planets young When this is clean destroyed.
Beyond the bounds our staring rounds, Across the pressing dark, The children wise of outer skies Look hitherward and mark A light that shifts, a glare that drifts, Rekindling thus and thus, Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne Strange tales to them of us.
Time hath no tide but must abide The servant of Thy will; Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme The ranging stars stand still -- Regent of spheres that lock our fears, Our hopes invisible, Oh 'twas certes at Thy decrees We fashioned Heaven and Hell! Pure Wisdom hath no certain path That lacks thy morning-eyne, And captains bold by Thee controlled Most like to Gods design; Thou art the Voice to kingly boys To lift them through the fight, And Comfortress of Unsuccess, To give the dead good-night -- A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law And Man's infirmity, A shadow kind to dumb and blind The shambles where we die; A rule to trick th' arithmetic Too base of leaguing odds -- The spur of trust, the curb of lust, Thou handmaid of the Gods! O Charity, all patiently Abiding wrack and scaith! O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats Yet drops no jot of faith! Devil and brute Thou dost transmute To higher, lordlier show, Who art in sooth that lovely Truth The careless angels know! Thy face is far from this our war, Our call and counter-cry, I may not find Thee quick and kind, Nor know Thee till I die.
Yet may I look with heart unshook On blow brought home or missed -- Yet may I hear with equal ear The clarions down the List; Yet set my lance above mischance And ride the barriere -- Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis, My Lady is not there!
Written by Alan Seeger | Create an image from this poem


 First, London, for its myriads; for its height, 
Manhattan heaped in towering stalagmite; 
But Paris for the smoothness of the paths 
That lead the heart unto the heart's delight.
Fair loiterer on the threshold of those days When there's no lovelier prize the world displays Than, having beauty and your twenty years, You have the means to conquer and the ways, And coming where the crossroads separate And down each vista glories and wonders wait, Crowning each path with pinnacles so fair You know not which to choose, and hesitate -- Oh, go to Paris.
In the midday gloom Of some old quarter take a little room That looks off over Paris and its towers From Saint Gervais round to the Emperor's Tomb, -- So high that you can hear a mating dove Croon down the chimney from the roof above, See Notre Dame and know how sweet it is To wake between Our Lady and our love.
And have a little balcony to bring Fair plants to fill with verdure and blossoming, That sparrows seek, to feed from pretty hands, And swallows circle over in the Spring.
There of an evening you shall sit at ease In the sweet month of flowering chestnut-trees, There with your little darling in your arms, Your pretty dark-eyed Manon or Louise.
And looking out over the domes and towers That chime the fleeting quarters and the hours, While the bright clouds banked eastward back of them Blush in the sunset, pink as hawthorn flowers, You cannot fail to think, as I have done, Some of life's ends attained, so you be one Who measures life's attainment by the hours That Joy has rescued from oblivion.
II Come out into the evening streets.
The green light lessens in the west.
The city laughs and liveliest her fervid pulse of pleasure beats.
The belfry on Saint Severin strikes eight across the smoking eaves: Come out under the lights and leaves to the Reine Blanche on Saint Germain.
Now crowded diners fill the floor of brasserie and restaurant.
Shrill voices cry "L'Intransigeant," and corners echo "Paris-Sport.
" Where rows of tables from the street are screened with shoots of box and bay, The ragged minstrels sing and play and gather sous from those that eat.
And old men stand with menu-cards, inviting passers-by to dine On the bright terraces that line the Latin Quarter boulevards.
But, having drunk and eaten well, 'tis pleasant then to stroll along And mingle with the merry throng that promenades on Saint Michel.
Here saunter types of every sort.
The shoddy jostle with the chic: Turk and Roumanian and Greek; student and officer and sport; Slavs with their peasant, Christ-like heads, and courtezans like powdered moths, And peddlers from Algiers, with cloths bright-hued and stitched with golden threads; And painters with big, serious eyes go rapt in dreams, fantastic shapes In corduroys and Spanish capes and locks uncut and flowing ties; And lovers wander two by two, oblivious among the press, And making one of them no less, all lovers shall be dear to you: All laughing lips you move among, all happy hearts that, knowing what Makes life worth while, have wasted not the sweet reprieve of being young.
"Comment ca va!" "Mon vieux!" "Mon cher!" Friends greet and banter as they pass.
'Tis sweet to see among the mass comrades and lovers everywhere, A law that's sane, a Love that's free, and men of every birth and blood Allied in one great brotherhood of Art and Joy and Poverty.
The open cafe-windows frame loungers at their liqueurs and beer, And walking past them one can hear fragments of Tosca and Boheme.
And in the brilliant-lighted door of cinemas the barker calls, And lurid posters paint the walls with scenes of Love and crime and war.
But follow past the flaming lights, borne onward with the stream of feet, Where Bullier's further up the street is marvellous on Thursday nights.
Here all Bohemia flocks apace; you could not often find elsewhere So many happy heads and fair assembled in one time and place.
Under the glare and noise and heat the galaxy of dancing whirls, Smokers, with covered heads, and girls dressed in the costume of the street.
From tables packed around the wall the crowds that drink and frolic there Spin serpentines into the air far out over the reeking hall, That, settling where the coils unroll, tangle with pink and green and blue The crowds that rag to "Hitchy-koo" and boston to the "Barcarole".
Here Mimi ventures, at fifteen, to make her debut in romance, And join her sisters in the dance and see the life that they have seen.
Her hair, a tight hat just allows to brush beneath the narrow brim, Docked, in the model's present whim, `frise' and banged above the brows.
Uncorseted, her clinging dress with every step and turn betrays, In pretty and provoking ways her adolescent loveliness, As guiding Gaby or Lucile she dances, emulating them In each disturbing stratagem and each lascivious appeal.
Each turn a challenge, every pose an invitation to compete, Along the maze of whirling feet the grave-eyed little wanton goes, And, flaunting all the hue that lies in childish cheeks and nubile waist, She passes, charmingly unchaste, illumining ignoble eyes.
But now the blood from every heart leaps madder through abounding veins As first the fascinating strains of "El Irresistible" start.
Caught in the spell of pulsing sound, impatient elbows lift and yield The scented softnesses they shield to arms that catch and close them round, Surrender, swift to be possessed, the silken supple forms beneath To all the bliss the measures breathe and all the madness they suggest.
Crowds congregate and make a ring.
Four deep they stand and strain to see The tango in its ecstasy of glowing lives that clasp and cling.
Lithe limbs relaxed, exalted eyes fastened on vacancy, they seem To float upon the perfumed stream of some voluptuous Paradise, Or, rapt in some Arabian Night, to rock there, cradled and subdued, In a luxurious lassitude of rhythm and sensual delight.
And only when the measures cease and terminate the flowing dance They waken from their magic trance and join the cries that clamor "Bis!" .
Midnight adjourns the festival.
The couples climb the crowded stair, And out into the warm night air go singing fragments of the ball.
Close-folded in desire they pass, or stop to drink and talk awhile In the cafes along the mile from Bullier's back to Montparnasse: The "Closerie" or "La Rotonde", where smoking, under lamplit trees, Sit Art's enamored devotees, chatting across their `brune' and `blonde'.
Make one of them and come to know sweet Paris -- not as many do, Seeing but the folly of the few, the froth, the tinsel, and the show -- But taking some white proffered hand that from Earth's barren every day Can lead you by the shortest way into Love's florid fairyland.
And that divine enchanted life that lurks under Life's common guise -- That city of romance that lies within the City's toil and strife -- Shall, knocking, open to your hands, for Love is all its golden key, And one's name murmured tenderly the only magic it demands.
And when all else is gray and void in the vast gulf of memory, Green islands of delight shall be all blessed moments so enjoyed: When vaulted with the city skies, on its cathedral floors you stood, And, priest of a bright brotherhood, performed the mystic sacrifice, At Love's high altar fit to stand, with fire and incense aureoled, The celebrant in cloth of gold with Spring and Youth on either hand.
III Choral Song Have ye gazed on its grandeur Or stood where it stands With opal and amber Adorning the lands, And orcharded domes Of the hue of all flowers? Sweet melody roams Through its blossoming bowers, Sweet bells usher in from its belfries the train of the honey-sweet hour.
A city resplendent, Fulfilled of good things, On its ramparts are pendent The bucklers of kings.
Broad banners unfurled Are afloat in its air.
The lords of the world Look for harborage there.
None finds save he comes as a bridegroom, having roses and vine in his hair.
'Tis the city of Lovers, There many paths meet.
Blessed he above others, With faltering feet, Who past its proud spires Intends not nor hears The noise of its lyres Grow faint in his ears! Men reach it through portals of triumph, but leave through a postern of tears.
It was thither, ambitious, We came for Youth's right, When our lips yearned for kisses As moths for the light, When our souls cried for Love As for life-giving rain Wan leaves of the grove, Withered grass of the plain, And our flesh ached for Love-flesh beside it with bitter, intolerable pain.
Under arbor and trellis, Full of flutes, full of flowers, What mad fortunes befell us, What glad orgies were ours! In the days of our youth, In our festal attire, When the sweet flesh was smooth, When the swift blood was fire, And all Earth paid in orange and purple to pavilion the bed of Desire!
Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem


 Romance, who loves to nod and sing
With drowsy head and folded wing
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say,
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Through gazing on the unquiet sky; And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flings, That little time with lyre and rhyme To while away—forbidden things— My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings.
Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

The Humble-Bee

BURLY dozing humble-bee  
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique Far-off heats through seas to seek; I will follow thee alone 5 Thou animated torrid-zone! Zigzag steerer desert cheerer Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer me thy hearer Singing over shrubs and vines.
10 Insect lover of the sun Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; 15 Epicurean of June; Wait I prithee till I come Within earshot of thy hum ¡ª All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind in May days 20 With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall And with softness touching all Tints the human countenance With a color of romance 25 And infusing subtle heats Turns the sod to violets Thou in sunny solitudes Rover of the underwoods The green silence dost displace 30 With thy mellow breezy bass.
Hot midsummer's petted crone Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours Long days and solid banks of flowers; 35 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace immortal leisure Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavory or unclean 40 Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells Maple-sap and daffodels Grass with green flag half-mast high Succory to match the sky 45 Columbine with horn of honey Scented fern and agrimony Clover catchfly adder's-tongue And brier-roses dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste 50 All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer blue-breeched philosopher! Seeing only what is fair Sipping only what is sweet 55 Thou dost mock at fate and care Leave the chaff and take the wheat.
When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast Thou already slumberest deep; 60 Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe which torture us Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Revelation

 The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut;
Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut;
Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train:
Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?

We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen;
They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men.
We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew; But when we go back to our Sissy jobs, -- oh, what are we going to do? For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square; And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air; And we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, with a new-found joy in our eyes, Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies.
And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call, Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall, Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night? Then .
oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight! Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey? As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead? Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now will haunt us through all the years; Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day? Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now, we're pledged to the Real Romance; We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France; We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die .
but first -- we'll live; by the gods, we'll live! We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; We'll march with men and we'll fight with men, and we'll see men laugh and die; We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: But the hardest bit of it all will be -- when we come back home again.
For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, and some of us teach in a school; Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again.
Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

The Funeral of Youth: Threnody

 The Day that Youth had died,
There came to his grave-side, 
In decent mourning, from the country’s ends, 
Those scatter’d friends 
Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,
And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted, 
In feast and wine and many-crown’d carouse, 
The days and nights and dawnings of the time 
When Youth kept open house, 
Nor left untasted
Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear, 
No quest of his unshar’d— 
All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar’d, 
Followed their old friend’s bier.
Folly went first, With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers’d; And after trod the bearers, hat in hand— Laughter, most hoarse, and Captain Pride with tanned And martial face all grim, and fussy Joy Who had to catch a train, and Lust, poor, snivelling boy; These bore the dear departed.
Behind them, broken-hearted, Came Grief, so noisy a widow, that all said, “Had he but wed Her elder sister Sorrow, in her stead!” And by her, trying to soothe her all the time, The fatherless children, Colour, Tune, and Rhyme (The sweet lad Rhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.
Then, at the way’s sad ending, Round the raw grave they stay’d.
Old Wisdom read, In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.
There stood Romance, The furrowing tears had mark’d her roug?d cheek; Poor old Conceit, his wonder unassuaged; Dead Innocency’s daughter, Ignorance; And shabby, ill-dress’d Generosity; And Argument, too full of woe to speak; Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged; And Friendship—not a minute older, she; Impatience, ever taking out his watch; Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean, to catch Old Wisdom’s endless drone.
Beauty was there, Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.
Poor maz’d Imagination; Fancy wild; Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair; Contentment, who had known Youth as a child And never seen him since.
And Spring came too, Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers— She did not stay for long.
And Truth, and Grace, and all the merry crew, The laughing Winds and Rivers, and lithe Hours; And Hope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowing Song;— Yes, with much woe and mourning general, At dead Youth’s funeral, Even these were met once more together, all, Who erst the fair and living Youth did know; All, except only Love.
Love had died long ago.
Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem

Snow Whites Acne

 At first she was sure it was just a bit of dried strawberry juice,
or a fleck of her mother's red nail polish that had flaked off
when she'd patted her daughter to sleep the night before.
But as she scrubbed, Snow felt a bump, something festering under the surface, like a tapeworm curled up and living in her left cheek.
Doc the Dwarf was no dermatologist and besides Snow doesn't get to meet him in this version because the mint leaves the tall doctor puts over her face only make matters worse.
Snow and the Queen hope against hope for chicken pox, measles, something that would be gone quickly and not plague Snow's whole adolescence.
If only freckles were red, she cried, if only concealer really worked.
Soon came the pus, the yellow dots, multiplying like pins in a pin cushion.
Soon came the greasy hair.
The Queen gave her daughter a razor for her legs and a stick of underarm deodorant.
Snow doodled through her teenage years—"Snow + ?" in Magic Markered hearts all over her notebooks.
She was an average student, a daydreamer who might have been a scholar if she'd only applied herself.
She liked sappy music and romance novels.
She liked pies and cake instead of fruit.
The Queen remained the fairest in the land.
It was hard on Snow, having such a glamorous mom.
She rebelled by wearing torn shawls and baggy gowns.
Her mother would sometimes say, "Snow darling, why don't you pull back your hair? Show those pretty eyes?" or "Come on, I'll take you shopping.
" Snow preferred staying in her safe room, looking out of her window at the deer leaping across the lawn.
Or she'd practice her dance moves with invisible princes.
And the Queen, busy being Queen, didn't like to push it.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem


 Is it not strange? A year ago to-day,
 With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round,
I did my decent job and earned my pay;
 Was averagely happy, I'll be bound.
Ay, in my little groove I was content, Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, With prosy days in stolid labour spent, And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend.
In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds.
I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store.
Stranger than any book I've ever read.
Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, Like too, if no one takes me in, to die.
Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; But calm, and feeling never pain at all, And full of wonder at the turn of it.
For of the dead around me three are mine, Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; So if I die I have no right to whine, I feel I've done my little bit all right.
I don't know how -- but there the beggars are, As dead as herrings pickled in a jar.
And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; You never heed; the air is metal-hot, And all alive with little flicking wings.
But on you charge.
You see the fellows fall; Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad.
But on you charge.
The heavens vomit death; And vicious death is besoming the ground.
You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound.
But on you charge.
Oh, War's a rousing game! Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, And on your helmet stones and ashes shower.
But on you charge.
It's odd! You have no fear.
Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath.
But on you charge.
Barbed wire all trampled down.
The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; A ragged ditch -- the Hun first line at last.
All smashed to hell.
Their second right ahead, So on you charge.
There's nothing else to do.
More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; (Your puttee strap's undone -- that worries you).
You glare around.
You think you're all alone.
But no; your chums come surging left and right.
The nearest chap flops down without a groan, His face still snarling with the rage of fight.
Ha! here's the second trench -- just like the first, Only a little more so, more "laid out"; More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt.
Now for the third, and there your job is done, So on you charge.
You never stop to think.
Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink.
The acrid air is full of cracking whips.
You wonder how it is you're going still.
You foam with rage.
Oh, God! to be at grips With someone you can rush and crush and kill.
Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now.
See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, And there's the trench -- you'll get there anyhow.
Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife.
You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge With all your comrades roaring at your heels.
Have at 'em lads! You stab, you jab, you lunge; A blaze of glory, then the red world reels.
A crash of triumph, then .
you're faint a bit .
That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it.
Well, that's the charge.
And now I'm here alone.
I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, To shield me from the leaden bees that drone (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none).
The only thing I'm wondering is when Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? It isn't much that's left of me, but then Where life is, hope is, so at least they say.
Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad.
I tell you I won't envy any king.
I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; I've had my crowning hour.
Oh, War's the thing! It gives us common, working chaps our chance, A taste of glory, chivalry, romance.
Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too.
It lets a man discover what he's worth.
It takes his measure, shows what he can do, Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth.
It fans in him a flame that otherwise Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; It teaches him in pain and sacrifice Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise.
Yes, War is good.
So here beside my slain, A happy wreck I wait amid the din; For even if I perish mine's the gain.
Hi, there, you fellows! won't you take me in? Give me a fag to smoke upon the way.
We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin.
Lead on! I'll live to fight another day.
Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

Tenth Commandment

 The woman said yes she would go to Australia with him
Unless he heard wrong and she said Argentina
Where they could learn the tango and pursue the widows
Of Nazi war criminals unrepentant to the end.
But no, she said Australia.
She'd been born in New Zealand.
The difference between the two places was the difference Between a hamburger and a chocolate malted, she said.
In the candy store across from the elementary school, They planned their tryst.
She said Australia, which meant She was willing to go to bed with him, and this Was before her husband's coronary At a time when a woman didn't take off her underpants If she didn't like you.
She said Australia, And he saw last summer's seashell collection In a plastic bag on a shelf in the mud room With last summer's sand.
The cycle of sexual captivity Beginning in romance and ending in adultery Was now in the late middle phases, the way America Had gone from barbarism to amnesia without A period of high decadence, which meant something, But what? A raft on the rapids? The violinist At the gate? Oh, absolute is the law of biology.
For the pornography seminar, what should she wear?
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediæval grace Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking.
Written by John Keats | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem


 In Paris on a morn of May
I sent a radio transalantic
To catch a steamer on the way,
But oh the postal fuss was frantic;
They sent me here, they sent me there,
They were so courteous yet so canny;
Then as I wilted in despair
A Frenchman flipped me on the fanny.
'Twas only juts a gentle pat, Yet oh what sympathy behind it! I don't let anyone do that, But somehow then I didn't mind it.
He seemed my worry to divine, With kindly smile, that foreign mannie, And as we stood in waiting line With tender touch he tapped my fanny.
It brought a ripple of romance Into that postal bureau dreary; He gave me such a smiling glance That somehow I felt gay and cheery.
For information on my case The postal folk searched nook and cranny; He gently tapped, with smiling face, His reassurance on my fanny.
So I'll go back to Tennessee, And they will ask: "How have you spent your Brief holiday in gay Paree?" But I'll not speak of my adventure.
Oh say I'm spectacled and grey, Oh say I'm sixty and a grannie - But say that morn of May A Frenchman flipped me on the fanny!
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

The Ivy Crown

 The whole process is a lie,
 crowned by excess,
It break forcefully,
 one way or another,
 from its confinement—
or find a deeper well.
Antony and Cleopatra were right; they have shown the way.
I love you or I do not live at all.
Daffodil time is past.
This is summer, summer! the heart says, and not even the full of it.
No doubts are permitted— though they will come and may before our time overwhelm us.
We are only mortal but being mortal can defy our fate.
We may by an outside chance even win! We do not look to see jonquils and violets come again but there are, still, the roses! Romance has no part in it.
The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
It has its seasons, for and against, whatever the heart fumbles in the dark to assert toward the end of May.
Just as the nature of briars is to tear flesh, I have proceeded through them.
Keep the briars out, they say.
You cannot live and keep free of briars.
Children pick flowers.
Let them.
Though having them in hand they have no further use for them but leave them crumpled at the curb's edge.
At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns.
Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is.
But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips.
We will it so and so it is past all accident.
Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

Boo to Buddha

 So it is eighteen years,
Helena, since we met!
A season so endears,
Nor you nor I forget
The fresh young faces that once clove
In that most fiery dawn of love.
We wandered to and fro, Who knew not how to woo, Those eighteen years ago, Sweetheart, when I and you Exchanged high vows in heaven's sight That scarce survived a summer's night.
What scourge smote from the stars What madness from the moon? That night we broke the bars Was quintessential June, When you and I beneath the trees Bartered our bold virginities.
Eighteen -years, months, or hours? Time is a tyrant's toy! Eternal are the flowers! We are but girl and boy Yet -since love leapt as swift to-night As it had never left the light! For fiercer from the South Still flames your cruel hair, And Trojan Helen's mouth Still not so ripe and rare As Helena's -nor love nor youth So leaps with lust or thrills with truth.
Helena, still we hold Flesh firmer, still we mix Black hair with hair as gold.
Life has but served to fix Our hearts; love lingers on the tongue, And who loves once is always young.
The stars are still the same; The changeful moon endures; Come without fear or shame, And draw my mouth to yours! Youth fails, however flesh be fain; Manhood and womanhood attain.
Life is a string of pearls, And you the first I strung.
You left -first flower of girls! - Life lyric on my tongue, An indefatigable dance, An inexhaustible romance! Blush of love's dawn, bright bud That bloomed for my delight, First blossom of my blood, Burn in that blood to-night! Helena, Helena, fiercely fresh, Your flesh flies fervent to my flesh.
What sage can dare impugn Man's immortality? Our godhead swims, immune From death and destiny.
Ignored the bubble in the flow Of love eighteen short years ago! Time -I embrace all time As my arm rings your waist.
Space -you surpass, sublime, As, taking me, we taste Omnipotence, sense slaying sense, Soul slaying soul, omniscience.