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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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See also: Best Member Poems

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 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.

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.

by Walter Savage Landor | |

The Three Roses

 When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part.
" Many summers have gone by Since a Second Rose and I (Rose from the same stem) have told This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding day Carried home my tenderest lay: From her lap I now have heard Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine; Cold and torpid it must lie, Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

On the Night of a Friends Wedding

 If ever I am old, and all alone, 
I shall have killed one grief, at any rate; 
For then, thank God, I shall not have to wait 
Much longer for the sheaves that I have sown.
The devil only knows what I have done, But here I am, and here are six or eight Good friends, who most ingenuously prate About my songs to such and such a one.
But everything is all askew to-night,— As if the time were come, or almost come, For their untenanted mirage of me To lose itself and crumble out of sight, Like a tall ship that floats above the foam A little while, and then breaks utterly.

by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

The Sea to the Shore

 Lo, I have loved thee long, long have I yearned and entreated!
Tell me how I may win thee, tell me how I must woo.
Shall I creep to thy white feet, in guise of a humble lover ? Shall I croon in mild petition, murmuring vows anew ? Shall I stretch my arms unto thee, biding thy maiden coyness, Under the silver of morning, under the purple of night ? Taming my ancient rudeness, checking my heady clamor­ Thus, is it thus I must woo thee, oh, my delight? Nay, 'tis no way of the sea thus to be meekly suitor­ I shall storm thee away with laughter wrapped in my beard of snow, With the wildest of billows for chords I shall harp thee a song for thy bridal, A mighty lyric of love that feared not nor would forego! With a red-gold wedding ring, mined from the caves of sunset, Fast shall I bind thy faith to my faith evermore, And the stars will wait on our pleasure, the great north wind will trumpet A thunderous marriage march for the nuptials of sea and shore.

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 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 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.

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.

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.

by Sidney Lanier | |

The Wedding

 O marriage-bells, your clamor tells
Two weddings in one breath.
SHE marries whom her love compels: -- And I wed Goodman Death! My brain is blank, my tears are red; Listen, O God: -- "I will," he said: -- And I would that I were dead.
Come groomsman Grief and bridesmaid Pain Come and stand with a ghastly twain.
My Bridegroom Death is come o'er the meres To wed a bride with bloody tears.
Ring, ring, O bells, full merrily: Life-bells to her, death-bells to me: O Death, I am true wife to thee!

by Denise Levertov | |


 My wedding-ring lies in a basket 
as if at the bottom of a well.
Nothing will come to fish it back up and onto my finger again.
It lies among keys to abandoned houses, nails waiting to be needed and hammered into some wall, telephone numbers with no names attached, idle paperclips.
It can't be given away for fear of bringing ill-luck.
It can't be sold for the marriage was good in its own time, though that time is gone.
Could some artificer beat into it bright stones, transform it into a dazzling circlet no one could take for solemn betrothal or to make promises living will not let them keep? Change it into a simple gift I could give in friendship?

by Vasko Popa | |


 Each strips his own skin 
Each bares his own constellation 
Which has never seen the night 

Each fills his skin with rocks 
And plays with it 
Lit by his own stars 

Who doesn't stop till dawn 
Who doesn't bat an eyelid or fall 
Earns his own skin 

(This game is rarely played)

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 Robert Louis Stevenson | |


 Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, 
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; 
Blinks but an hour or two; and then, 
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding cake.

by Robert Louis Stevenson | |

My Bed is a Boat

 My bed is like a little boat; 
Nurse helps me in when I embark; 
She girds me in my sailor's coat 
And starts me in the dark.
At night I go on board and say Good-night to all my friends on shore; I shut my eyes and sail away And see and hear no more.
And sometimes things to bed I take, As prudent sailors have to do; Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, Perhaps a toy or two.
All night across the dark we steer; But when the day returns at last, Safe in my room beside the pier, I find my vessel fast.

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 | |


 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 Vernon Scannell | |

Silver Wedding

 Silver Wedding

The party is over and I sit among
The flotsam that its passing leaves,
The dirty glasses and fag-ends:
Outside, a black wind grieves.
Two decades and a half of marriage; It does not really seem as long, Of youth's ebullient song.
David, my son, my loved rival, And Julia, my tapering daughter, Now grant me one achievement only; I turn their wine to water.
And Helen, partner of all these years, Helen, my spouse, my sack of sighs, Reproaches me for every hurt With injured, bovine eyes.
There must have been passion once, I grant, But neither she nor I could bear To have its ghost come prowling from Its dark and frowsy lair.
And we, to keep our nuptials warm, Still wage sporadic war; Numb with insult each yet strives To scratch the other raw.
Twenty-five years we've now survived; I'm not sure either why or how As I sit with a wreath of quarrels set On my tired and balding brow.

by William Matthews | |

Job Interview

 Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife
 He would have written sonnets all his life?
 DON JUAN, III, 63-4

"Where do you see yourself five years from now?"
the eldest male member (or is "male member"
a redundancy?) of the committee
asked me.
"Not here," I thought.
A good thing I speak fluent Fog.
I craved that job like some unappeasable, taunting woman.
What did Byron's friend Hobhouse say after the wedding? "I felt as if I had buried a friend.
" Each day I had that job I felt the slack leash at my throat and thought what was its other trick.
Better to scorn the job than ask what I had ever seen in it or think what pious muck I'd ladled over the committee.
If they believed me, they deserved me.
As luck would have it, the job lasted me almost but not quite five years.

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 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.