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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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Written by Sylvia Plath | |

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten I manage it_____ A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face featureless, fine Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin O my enemy.
Do I terrify?------- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand in foot ------ The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies These are my hands My knees.
I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut As a seashell.
They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out.
There is a charge For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart--- It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--- You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
(1962)


Written 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.


Written by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | |

Crossing the Frontier

 Crossing the frontier they were stopped in time, 
Told, quite politely, they would have to wait: 
Passports in order, nothing to declare 
And surely holding hands was not a crime 
Until they saw how, ranged across the gate, 
All their most formidable friends were there.
Wearing his conscience like a crucifix, Her father, rampant, nursed the Family Shame; And, armed wlth their old-fashioned dinner-gong, His aunt, who even when they both were six, Had just to glance towards a childish game To make them feel that they were doing wrong.
And both their mothers, simply weeping floods, Her head-mistress, his boss, the parish priest, And the bank manager who cashed their cheques; The man who sold him his first rubber-goods; Dog Fido, from whose love-life, shameless beast, She first observed the basic facts of sex.
They looked as though they had stood there for hours; For years - perhaps for ever.
In the trees Two furtive birds stopped courting and flew off; While in the grass beside the road the flowers Kept up their guilty traffic with the bees.
Nobody stirred.
Nobody risked a cough.
Nobody spoke.
The minutes ticked away; The dog scratched idly.
Then, as parson bent And whispered to a guard who hurried in, The customs-house loudspeakers with a bray Of raucous and triumphant argument Broke out the wedding march from Lohengrin.
He switched the engine off: "We must turn back.
" She heard his voice break, though he had to shout Against a din that made their senses reel, And felt his hand, so tense in hers, go slack.
But suddenly she laughed and said: "Get out! Change seatsl Be quickl" and slid behind the wheel.
And drove the car straight at them with a harsh, Dry crunch that showered both with scraps and chips, Drove through them; barriers rising let them pass Drove through and on and on, with Dad's moustache Beside her twitching still round waxen lips And Mother's tears still streaming down the glass.


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Written 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.


Written by | |

Burnie Bee


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


Written 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.


Written by Carol Ann Duffy | |

Valentine

 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.
Here.
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.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers, cling to your knife.


Written by Maria Mazziotti Gillan | |

LOVE POEM TO MY HUSBAND OF THIRTY-ONE YEARS

 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.
C.
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.


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

SIR CURTS WEDDING-JOURNEY.

 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.
*


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE WEDDING NIGHT.

 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.
1767.


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE WEDDING.

 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.
1821.
*


Written by A E Housman | |

Bredon Hill

 In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie, And see the coloured counties, And hear the larks so high About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her In valleys miles away: 'Come all to church, good people; Good people, come and pray.
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer Among the springing thyme, 'Oh, peal upon our wedding, And we will hear the chime, And come to church in time.
But when the snows at Christmas On Bredon top were strewn, My love rose up so early And stole out unbeknown And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only, Groom there was none to see, The mourners followed after, And so to church went she, And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon, And still the steeples hum.
'Come all to church, good people,' - Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come.


Written by Ellis Parker Butler | |

The Final Tax

 Said Statesman A to Statesman Z:
“What can we tax that is not paying?
We’re taxing every blessed thing—
Here’s what our people are defraying:

“Tariff tax, income tax,
Tax on retail sales,
Club tax, school tax,
Tax on beers and ales,

“City tax, county tax,
Tax on obligations,
War tax.
wine tax, Tax on corporations, “Brewer tax, sewer tax, Tax on motor cars, Bond tax, stock tax, Tax on liquor bars, “Bridge tax, check tax, Tax on drugs and pills, Gas tax, ticket tax, Tax on gifts in wills, “Poll tax, dog tax, Tax on money loaned, State tax, road tax, Tax on all things owned, “Stamp tax, land tax, Tax on wedding ring, High tax, low tax, Tax on everything!” Said Statesman A to Statesman Z: “That is the list, a pretty bevy; No thing or act that is untaxed; There’s nothing more on which to levy.
” Said Statesman Z to Statesman A: “The deficit each moment waxes; This is no time for us to fail— We will decree a tax on taxes.


Written by Ellis Parker Butler | |

Good - Better - Best

 When young, in tones quite positive
I said, "The world shall see
That I can keep myself from sin;
A good man I will be.
" But when I loved Miss Kate St.
Clair 'Twas thus my musing ran: "I cannot be compared with her; I'll be a better man.
" 'Twas at the wedding of a friend (He married Kate St.
Clair) That I became superlative, For I was "best man" there.


Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

At The Wedding March

 God with honour hang your head,
Groom, and grace you, bride, your bed
With lissome scions, sweet scions,
Out of hallowed bodies bred.
Each be other's comfort kind: Déep, déeper than divined, Divine charity, dear charity, Fast you ever, fast bind.
Then let the March tread our ears: I to him turn with tears Who to wedlock, his wonder wedlock, Déals tríumph and immortal years.