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Best Famous Wedding Poems

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

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Burnie Bee

Burnie bee, burnie bee,
Tell me when your wedding be?
If it be to-morrow day,
Take your wings and fly away.

by William Cullen Bryant | |

The Living Lost

 Matron! the children of whose love,
Each to his grave, in youth have passed,
And now the mould is heaped above
The dearest and the last!
Bride! who dost wear the widow's veil
Before the wedding flowers are pale!
Ye deem the human heart endures
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.
Yet there are pangs of keener wo, Of which the sufferers never speak, Nor to the world's cold pity show The tears that scald the cheek, Wrung from their eyelids by the shame And guilt of those they shrink to name, Whom once they loved, with cheerful will, And love, though fallen and branded, still.
Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead, Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve; And graceful are the tears ye shed, And honoured ye who grieve.
The praise of those who sleep in earth, The pleasant memory of their worth, The hope to meet when life is past, Shall heal the tortured mind at last.
But ye, who for the living lost That agony in secret bear, Who shall with soothing words accost The strength of your despair? Grief for your sake is scorn for them Whom ye lament and all condemn; And o'er the world of spirits lies A gloom from which ye turn your eyes.

by Robert Penn Warren | |

True Love

 In silence the heart raves.
It utters words Meaningless, that never had A meaning.
I was ten, skinny, red-headed, Freckled.
In a big black Buick, Driven by a big grown boy, with a necktie, she sat In front of the drugstore, sipping something Through a straw.
There is nothing like Beauty.
It stops your heart.
It Thickens your blood.
It stops your breath.
It Makes you feel dirty.
You need a hot bath.
I leaned against a telephone pole, and watched.
I thought I would die if she saw me.
How could I exist in the same world with that brightness? Two years later she smiled at me.
She Named my name.
I thought I would wake up dead.
Her grown brothers walked with the bent-knee Swagger of horsemen.
They were slick-faced.
Told jokes in the barbershop.
Did no work.
Their father was what is called a drunkard.
Whatever he was he stayed on the third floor Of the big white farmhouse under the maples for twenty-five years.
He never came down.
They brought everything up to him.
I did not know what a mortgage was.
His wife was a good, Christian woman, and prayed.
When the daughter got married, the old man came down wearing An old tail coat, the pleated shirt yellowing.
The sons propped him.
I saw the wedding.
There were Engraved invitations, it was so fashionable.
I thought I would cry.
I lay in bed that night And wondered if she would cry when something was done to her.
The mortgage was foreclosed.
That last word was whispered.
She never came back.
The family Sort of drifted off.
Nobody wears shiny boots like that now.
But I know she is beautiful forever, and lives In a beautiful house, far away.
She called my name once.
I didn't even know she knew it.

More great poems below...

by Carol Ann Duffy | |


 Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light like the careful undressing of love.
It will blind you with tears like a lover.
It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or a kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips, possessive and faithful as we are, for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring, if you like.
Its scent will cling to your fingers, cling to your knife.

by Maria Mazziotti Gillan | |


 I watch you walk up our front path, 
the entire right side of your body, 
stiff and unbending, your leg, 
dragging on the ground, 
your arm not moving.
Six different times you ask me the date of our daughter's wedding, seem surprised each time, forget who called, though you can name obscure desert animals, and every detail of events that took place in 3 B.
You complain now of pain in your muscles, of swimming at the Y where a 76 year old man tells you you swim too slowly.
I imagine a world in which you cannot move.
Most days, I force myself to look only into the past; remember you, singing and playing your guitar: "Black, black is the color of my true love's hair," you sang, and each time you came into a room how my love for you caught in my throat, how handsome you were, how strong and muscular, how the sun lit your blond hair.
Now I pretend not to notice the trouble you have buttoning your shirt, and yes, I am terrified and no, I cannot tell you.
The future is a murky lake.
I am afraid of the monsters who wait just below its surface.
Even in our mahogany bed, I am not safe.
Each day, I swim toward everything I didn't want to know.
Copyright © 1997 by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, all rights reserved.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 WITH a bridegroom's joyous bearing,

Mounts Sir Curt his noble beast,
To his mistress' home repairing,

There to hold his wedding feast;
When a threatening foe advances

From a desert, rocky spot;
For the fray they couch their lances,

Not delaying, speaking not.
Long the doubtful fight continues, Victory then for Curt declares; Conqueror, though with wearied sinews, Forward on his road he fares.
When he sees, though strange it may be, Something 'midst the foliage move; 'Tis a mother, with her baby, Stealing softly through the grove! And upon the spot she beckons-- "Wherefore, love, this speed so wild? Of the wealth thy storehouse reckons, Hast thou nought to give thy child!" Flames of rapture now dart through him, And he longs for nothing more, While the mother seemeth to him Lovely as the maid of yore.
But he hears his servants blowing, And bethinks him of his bride; And ere long, while onward going, Chances past a fair to ride; In the booths he forthwith buys him For his mistress many a pledge; But, alas! some Jews surprise him, And long-standing debts allege.
And the courts of justice duly Send the knight to prison straight.
Oh accursed story, truly! For a hero, what a fate! Can my patience such things weather? Great is my perplexity.
Women, debts, and foes together,-- Ah, no knight escapes scot free! 1803.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 WITHIN the chamber, far away

From the glad feast, sits Love in dread
Lest guests disturb, in wanton play,

The silence of the bridal bed.
His torch's pale flame serves to gild The scene with mystic sacred glow; The room with incense-clouds is fil'd, That ye may perfect rapture know.
How beats thy heart, when thou dost hear The chime that warns thy guests to fly! How glow'st thou for those lips so dear, That soon are mute, and nought deny! With her into the holy place Thou hast'nest then, to perfect all; The fire the warder's hands embrace, Grows, like a night-light, dim and small.
How heaves her bosom, and how burns Her face at every fervent kiss! Her coldness now to trembling turns, Thy daring now a duty is.
Love helps thee to undress her fast, But thou art twice as fast as he; And then he shuts both eye at last, With sly and roguish modesty.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 A FEAST was in a village spread,--
It was a wedding-day, they said.
The parlour of the inn I found, And saw the couples whirling round, Each lass attended by her lad, And all seem'd loving, blithe, and glad; But on my asking for the bride, A fellow with a stare, replied: "'Tis not the place that point to raise! We're only dancing in her honour; We now have danced three nights and days, And not bestowed one thought upon her.
" * * * * Whoe'er in life employs his eyes Such cases oft will recognise.

by Mark Van Doren | |

Morning Worship

 I wake and hearing it raining.
Were I dead, what would I give Lazily to lie here, Like this, and live? Or better yet: birdsong, Brightening and spreading -- How far would I come then To be at the world's wedding? Now that I lie, though, Listening, living, (Oh, but not forever, Oh, end arriving) How shall I praise them: All the sweet beings Eternally that outlive Me and my dying? Mountains, I mean; wind, water, air; Grass, and huge trees; clouds, flowers, And thunder, and night.
Turtles, I mean, and toads; hawks, herons, owls; Graveyards, and towns, and trout; roads, gardens, Red berries, and deer.
Lightning, I mean, and eagles; fences; snow; Sunrise, and ferns; waterfalls, serpents, Green islands, and sleep.
Horses, I mean; butterflies, whales; Mosses, and stars and gravelly Rivers, and fruit.
Oceans, I mean; black valleys; corn; Brambles, and cliffs; rock, dirt, dust, ice; And warnings of flood.
How shall I name them? And in what order? Each would be first.
Omission is murder.
Maidens, I mean, and apples; needles; leaves; Worms, and planers, and clover; whirlwinds; dew; Bulls; geese -- Stop.
Lie still.
You will never be done.
Leave them all there.
Old lover.
Live on.

by Philip Larkin | |

Wedding Wind

 The wind blew all my wedding-day,
And my wedding-night was the night of the high wind;
And a stable door was banging, again and again,
That he must go and shut it, leaving me
Stupid in candlelight, hearing rain,
Seeing my face in the twisted candlestick,
Yet seeing nothing.
When he came back He said the horses were restless, and I was sad That any man or beast that night should lack The happiness I had.
Now in the day All's ravelled under the sun by the wind's blowing.
He has gone to look at the floods, and I Carry a chipped pail to the chicken-run, Set it down, and stare.
All is the wind Hunting through clouds and forests, thrashing My apron and the hanging cloths on the line.
Can it be borne, this bodying-forth by wind Of joy my actions turn on, like a thread Carrying beads? Shall I be let to sleep Now this perpetual morning shares my bed? Can even death dry up These new delighted lakes, conclude Our kneeling as cattle by all-generous waters?

by Adrienne Rich | |

Aunt Jennifers Tigers

 Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen, 
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree; They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.
Aunt Jennifer's fingers fluttering through her wool Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand.
When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.

by Christina Rossetti | |

Cousin Kate

 I was a cottage maiden 
Hardened by sun and air 
Contented with my cottage mates, 
Not mindful I was fair.
Why did a great lord find me out, And praise my flaxen hair? Why did a great lord find me out, To fill my heart with care? He lured me to his palace home - Woe's me for joy thereof- To lead a shameless shameful life, His plaything and his love.
He wore me like a silken knot, He changed me like a glove; So now I moan, an unclean thing, Who might have been a dove.
O Lady kate, my cousin Kate, You grew more fair than I: He saw you at your father's gate, Chose you, and cast me by.
He watched your steps along the lane, Your work among the rye; He lifted you from mean estate To sit with him on high.
Because you were so good and pure He bound you with his ring: The neighbors call you good and pure, Call me an outcast thing.
Even so I sit and howl in dust, You sit in gold and sing: Now which of us has tenderer heart? You had the stronger wing.
O cousin Kate, my love was true, Your love was writ in sand: If he had fooled not me but you, If you stood where I stand, He'd not have won me with his love Nor bought me with his land; I would have spit into his face And not have taken his hand.
Yet I've a gift you have not got, And seem not like to get: For all your clothes and wedding-ring I've little doubt you fret.
My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride, Cling closer, closer yet: Your father would give his lands for one To wear his coronet.

by Robert William Service | |

I Shall Not Burn

 I have done with love and lust,
 I reck not for gold or fame;
I await familiar dust
 These frail fingers to reclaim:
 Not for me the tiger flame.
Not for me the furnace glow, Rage of fire and ashen doom; To sweet earth my bones bestow Where above a lowly tomb January roses bloom.
Fools and fools and fools are you Who your dears to fires confide; Give to Mother Earth her due: Flesh may waste but bone will bide,-- Let loved ones lie side by side.
Let God's Acre ever dream; Shed your tears and blossoms bring; On age-burnished bone will gleam Crucifix and wedding ring: Graves are for sweet comforting.
Curst be those who my remains Hurl to horror of the flames!

by Robert William Service | |

Soldier Boy

 My soldier boy has crossed the sea
 To fight the foeman;
But he'll come back to make of me
 And honest woman.
So I am singing all day long, Despite blood-shedding; For though I know he's done me wrong, We'll end by wedding.
My soldier boy is home again, So bold and scathless; But oh, my heart is numb with pain Because he's faithless.
He's brought with him a French Mam'selle; They plan a marriage; Maybe I'll go - no one will know Of my miscarriage.
My soldier boy has made his choice, She'll hold him to it; I tell myself that I rejoice, May he not rue it.
But oh, that starry month of May, Love-words wild spoken! I stand alone and make no moan .
My heart is broken.

by Robert William Service | |

The Wedding Ring

 I pawned my sick wife's wedding ring,
To drink and make myself a beast.
I got the most that it would bring, Of golden coins the very least.
With stealth into her room I crept And stole it from her as she slept.
I do not think that she will know, As in its place I left a band Of brass that has a brighter glow And gleamed upon her withered hand.
I do not think that she can tell The change - she does not see too well.
Pray God, she doesn't find me out.
I'd rather far I would be dead.
Yet yesterday she seemed to doubt, And looking at me long she said: "My finger must have shrunk, because My ring seems bigger than it was.
" She gazed at it so wistfully, And one big tear rolled down her cheek.
Said she: "You'll bury it with me .
" I was so moved I could not speak.
Oh wretched me! How whisky can Bring out the devil in a man!" And yet I know she loves me still, As on the morn that we were wed; And darkly guess I also will Be doomed the day that she is dead.
And yet I swear, before she's gone, I will retrieve her ring from pawn.
I'll get it though I have to steal, Then when to ease her bitter pain They give her sleep oh I will feel Her hand and slip it on again; Through tears her wasted face I'll see, And pray to God: "Oh pity me!"

by Robert William Service | |

The Undying

 She was so wonderful I wondered
If wedding me she had not blundered;
She was so pure, so high above me,
I marvelled how she came to love me:
Or did she? Well, in her own fashion -
Affection, pity, never passion.
I knew I was not worth her love; Yet oh, how wistfully I strove To be her equal in some way; She knew I tried, and I would pray Some day she'd hold her head in pride, And stand with praising by my side.
A Weakling, I - she made me strong; My finest thoughts to her belong; Through twenty years she mothered me, And then one day she smothered me With kisses, saying wild with joy: "Soon we'll be three - let's hope, a boy.
" "Too old to bear a child," they said; Well, they were right, for both are dead.
Ah no, not dead - she is with me, And by my side she'll ever be; Her spirit lingers, half divine: All good I do is hers, not mine.
God, by my works O let me strive To keep her gentleness alive! Let in my heart her spirit glow, And by my thoughts for others show She is not dead: she'll never die While love for humankind have I.

by Robert William Service | |

The Boola-Boola Maid

 In the wilds of Madagascar, Dwelt a Boola-boola maid;
For her hand young men would ask her, But she always was afraid.
Oh that Boola-boola maid She was living in the shade Of a spreading Yum-yum tree; And - when the day was done At the setting of the sun, She would make this melodee: As this ditty she was cooing, Came a Boola-boola man; And he lost no time in wooing; For he punched her on the pan.
Oh that Boola-boola maid She was terribly afraid So he punched her on the eye; And - then he laugh'd with glee As beneath the Yum-yum tree He - heard that maiden cry: Then with shrieks of ribald laughter, Said the Boola-boola man; "If it's only socks you're after, I will do the best I can.
I have handed you a pair, And I've plenty more to spare," So he socked her on the nose; And a woeful maid was she, As beneath the Yum-yum tree, This - lamentation 'rose: Now the wedding tom-tom's over, for this Boola-boola maid; And when ev'ning shadows hover, She no longer is afraid.
For she weasrs a palm-leaf pinny And she rocks a pickaninny In the shade of the Yum-yum tree, And she's happy with her he-man, Though she still dreams of a She-man, As she sings this song with glee: Chorus: Oh - I don't want my cave-man to caress me, Oh I don't want no coal-black heads to press me.
All I want is a fellow who wears suspenders, That'll be the coon to whom this babe surenders.
For the man I wed must have a proper trouseau.
On none of your fig-leaf dudes will make me do so.
For it's funny how I feel, But I'm crazy for socks appeal And my dream is to marry a man with a pair of socks.

by Robert William Service | |


 They must not wed the Doctor said,
 For they were far from strong,
And children of their marriage bed
 Might not live overlong.
And yet each eve I saw them pass With rapt and eager air, As fit a seeming lad and lass As ought to pair.
For twenty years I went away And scoured the China Sea, Then homing came and found that they Were still sweet company.
The Doctor and the Priest had banned Three times their wedding ties, Yet they were walking hand in hand, Love in their eyes.
And then I went away again For years another score, And sailored all the Spanish Main Ere I returned once more; And now I see them pass my gate, So slow and stooped and grey, And when I asked them: "Why not mate?" "We do," they say.
"No priest and village bells we need, No Doctor to approve; The Lord has wedded us indeed With everlasting love.
How wonderful to understand The working of His will! Lo! We are walking hand in hand, And sweethearts still.

by Rabindranath Tagore | |

The Gardener LXXXI: Why Do You Whisper So Faintly

 Why do you whisper so faintly in
my ears, O Death, my Death?
When the flowers droop in the
evening and cattle come back to their
stalls, you stealthily come to my side
and speak words that I do not
Is this how you must woo and win me with the opiate of drowsy murmur and cold kisses, O Death, my Death? Will there be no proud ceremony for our wedding? Will you not tie up with a wreath your tawny coiled locks? Is there none to carry your banner before you, and will not the night be on fire with your red torch-lights, O Death, my Death? Come with your conch-shells sound- ing, come in the sleepless night.
Dress me with a crimson mantle, grasp my hand and take me.
Let your chariot be ready at my door with your horses neighing impatiently.
Raise my veil and look at my face proudly, O Death, my Death!

by Barry Tebb | |


 Dawn’s my Mr Right, already

Cocks have crowed, birds flown from nests,

The neon lights of Leeds last night still

Sovereign in my sights, limousines and

Pink baloons, tee shirts with green stencilled

Dates of wedding days to come, the worn dance floor,

Jingling arcades where chrome fendered fruit machines

Rest on plush carpets like the ghosts of fifties Chevies,

Dreams for sale on boulevards where forget-me-nots

Are flowing through the hyaline summer air.
I stood with you in Kings Cross on Thursday night Waiting for a bus we saw the lighthouse on top Of a triangle of empty shops and seedy bedsits, Some relic of a nineteenth century’s eccentric’s dream come true.
But posing now the question "What to do with a listed building And the Channel Tunnel coming through?" Its welded slats, Timber frame and listing broken windows blew our minds- Like discovering a Tintoretto in a gallery of fakes.
Leeds takes away the steely glare of Sutton Weighing down on me like breeze-blocks by the ton, When all I want to do is run away and make a home In Keighley, catch a bus to Haworth and walk and walk Till human talk is silenced by the sun.

by Barry Tebb | |


 Eggshell and Wedgwood Blue were just two

Of the range on the colour cards Dulux

Tailored to our taste in the fifties,

Brentford nylons, Formica table tops and

Fablon shelf-covering in original oak or

Spruce under neon tubes and Dayglo shades.
Wartime brown and green went out, along with The Yorkist Range, the wire-mesh food safe In the cellar, the scrubbed board bath lid And marbled glass bowl over the light bulb With its hidden hoard of dead flies and Rusting three-tier chain.
We moved to the new estate, Airey semis With their pebble-dash prefabricated slats, Built-in kitchen units and made-to-measure gardens.
Every Saturday I went back to the streets, Dinner at Auntie Nellie’s, Yorkies, mash and gravy, Then the matinee at the Princess with Margaret, The queen of my ten-year old heart.
Everybody was on the move, half the neighbours To the new estates or death, newcomers with Rough tongues from over the bridge slum clearance.
A drive-in Readymix cement works bruised the Hollows, Ellerby Lane School closed, St.
Hilda’s bulldozed.
The trams stopped for good after the Coronation Special In purple and gold toured the city's tracks and The red-white and blue on the cake at the street party Crumbled to dust and the river-bank rats fed on it Like Miss Haversham’s wedding feast all over again.
The cobbled hill past the Mansions led nowhere, The buses ran empty, then the route closed.
I returned again and again in friends’ cars, Now alone, on foot, again and again.

by Dylan Thomas | |

On A Wedding Anniversary

 The sky is torn across
This ragged anniversary of two
Who moved for three years in tune
Down the long walks of their vows.
Now their love lies a loss And Love and his patients roar on a chain; From every tune or crater Carrying cloud, Death strikes their house.
Too late in the wrong rain They come together whom their love parted: The windows pour into their heart And the doors burn in their brain.

by Edward Thomas | |

The Cherry Trees

 The cherry trees bend over and are shedding,
On the old road where all that passed are dead,
Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding
This early May morn when there is none to wed.

by Charles Webb | |

The Wife of the Mind

 Sharecroppers' child, she was more schooled
In slaughtering pigs and coaxing corn out of
The ground than in the laws of Math, the rules
Of Grammar.
Seventeen, she fell in love With the senior quarterback, and nearly Married him, but—the wedding just a week Away—drove her trousseau back to Penney's, Then drove on past sagging fences, flooding creeks, And country bars to huge Washington State, Where, feeling like a hick, she studied French to compensate.
She graduated middle-of-her-class, Managed a Senior Center while she flailed Away at an M.
, from the morass Of which a poet/rock-singer from Yale Plucked her.
He loved her practicality; She adored his brilliance.
Sex was great.
They married in a civil ceremony.
He played around, for which she berated Herself, telling friends things were "hunky-dory.
" Resentment grew.
oh, you said "life"? That's another story.

by Richard Wilbur | |

Wedding Toast

John tells how, at Cana's wedding feast, The water-pots poured wine in such amount That by his sober count There were a hundred gallons at the least.
It made no earthly sense, unless to show How whatsoever love elects to bless Brims to a sweet excess That can without depletion overflow.
Which is to say that what love sees is true; That this world's fullness is not made but found.
Life hungers to abound And pour its plenty out for such as you.
Now, if your loves will lend an ear to mine, I toast you both, good son and dear new daughter.
May you not lack for water, And may that water smack of Cana's wine.