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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 Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Tree In Pamelas Garden

 Pamela was too gentle to deceive 
Her roses.
"Let the men stay where they are," She said, "and if Apollo's avatar Be one of them, I shall not have to grieve.
" And so she made all Tilbury Town believe She sighed a little more for the North Star Than over men, and only in so far As she was in a garden was like Eve.
Her neighbors—doing all that neighbors can To make romance of reticence meanwhile— Seeing that she had never loved a man, Wished Pamela had a cat, or a small bird, And only would have wondered at her smile Could they have seen that she had overheard.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold

 Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand, 
He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore, 
And brings their crystal cadence back once more 
To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land 
Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band 
Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore 
Of heroes and the men that long before 
Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned.
Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray -- For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms; And still does art's imperial vista show, On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away, Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms.


by George William Russell | |

Weariness

 WHERE are now the dreams divine,
Fires that lit the dawning soul,
As the ruddy colours shine
Through an opal aureole?


Moving in a joyous trance,
We were like the forest glooms
Rumorous of old romance,
Fraught with unimagined dooms.
Titans we or morning stars, So we seemed in days of old, Mingling in the giant wars Fought afar in deeps of gold.
God, an elder brother dear, Filled with kindly light our thought: Many a radiant form was near Whom our hearts remember not.
Would they know us now? I think Old companions of the prime From our garments well might shrink, Muddied with the lees of Time.
Fade the heaven-assailing moods: Slave to petty tasks I pine For the quiet of the woods, And the sunlight seems divine.
And I yearn to lay my head Where the grass is green and sweet, Mother, all the dreams are fled From the tired child at thy feet.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Jeanne dArc Returns

 1914-1916 

What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife,
What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife,
To prove the pride of thine inheritance
In this fair land of freedom and romance?
I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,--
Smiling against the swords that seek thy life,--
Make answer in a noble utterance:
"I give France all I have, and all she asks.
Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take: My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,-- My feet to run her errands through the dark,-- My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,-- And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d'Arc!"


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

The Forest Path

 Oh, the charm of idle dreaming
Where the dappled shadows dance,
All the leafy aisles are teeming
With the lure of old romance! 

Down into the forest dipping,
Deep and deeper as we go,
One might fancy dryads slipping
Where the white-stemmed birches grow.
Lurking gnome and freakish fairy In the fern may peep and hide .
.
.
Sure their whispers low and airy Ring us in on every side! Saw you where the pines are rocking Nymph's white shoulder as she ran? Lo, that music faint and mocking, Is it not a pipe of Pan? Hear you that elusive laughter Of the hidden waterfall? Nay, a satyr speeding after Ivy-crowned bacchanal.
Far and farther as we wander Sweeter shall our roaming be, Come, for dim and winsome yonder Lies the path to Arcady!


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

Come Rest Awhile

 Come, rest awhile, and let us idly stray 
In glimmering valleys, cool and far away.
Come from the greedy mart, the troubled street, And listen to the music, faint and sweet, That echoes ever to a listening ear, Unheard by those who will not pause to hear­ The wayward chimes of memory's pensive bells, Wind-blown o'er misty hills and curtained dells.
One step aside and dewy buds unclose The sweetness of the violet and the rose; Song and romance still linger in the green, Emblossomed ways by you so seldom seen, And near at hand, would you but see them, lie All lovely things beloved in days gone by.
You have forgotten what it is to smile In your too busy life­come, rest awhile.


by Walter de la Mare | |

Old Susan

 When Susan's work was done, she'd sit 
With one fat guttering candle lit, 
And window opened wide to win 
The sweet night air to enter in; 
There, with a thumb to keep her place 
She'd read, with stern and wrinkled face.
Her mild eyes gliding very slow Across the letters to and fro, While wagged the guttering candle flame In the wind that through the window came.
And sometimes in the silence she Would mumble a sentence audibly, Or shake her head as if to say, "You silly souls, to act this way!" And never a sound from night I'd hear, Unless some far-off cock crowed clear; Or her old shuffling thumb should turn Another page; and rapt and stern, Through her great glasses bent on me, She'd glance into reality; And shake her round old silvery head, With--"You!--I thought you was in bed!"-- Only to tilt her book again, And rooted in Romance remain.


by Erin Belieu | |

From On Being Fired Again

 I've known the pleasures of being
fired at least eleven times—

most notably by Larry who found my snood
unsuitable, another time by Jack,
whom I was sleeping with.
Poor attitude, tardiness, a contagious lack of team spirit; I have been unmotivated squirting perfume onto little cards, while stocking salad bars, when stripping covers from romance novels, their heroines slaving on the chain gang of obsessive love— and always the same hard candy of shame dissolving in my throat; handing in my apron, returning the cash- register key.
And yet, how fine it feels, the perversity of freedom which never signs a rent check or explains anything to one's family.
.
.


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.


by Vachel Lindsay | |

Springfield Magical

 In this, the City of my Discontent, 
Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass, 
"Romance, Romance — is here.
No Hindu town Is quite so strange.
No Citadel of Brass By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate; No picture-palace in a picture-book Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!" In this, the City of my Discontent, Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep Wild legends new and old burn round my bed While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep.
Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts, Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent; And, for a day, fair Peace have given me In this, the City of my Discontent!


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 Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Plains

 A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow 
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go 
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred - land where you never know.
Land of the plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance, Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance, Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.
And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by, Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry - Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.


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!