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Best Famous Lovesick Poems

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

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Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Vanity Fair

 Through frost-thick weather
This witch sidles, fingers crooked, as if
Caught in a hazardous medium that might 
Merely by its continuing
Attach her to heaven.

At eye's envious corner
Crow's-feet copy veining on a stained leaf;
Cold squint steals sky's color; while bruit
Of bells calls holy ones, her tongue
Backtalks at the raven

Claeving furred air
Over her skull's midden; no knife
Rivals her whetted look, divining what conceit
Waylays simple girls, church-going,
And what heart's oven

Craves most to cook batter
Rich in strayings with every amorous oaf,
Ready, for a trinket,
To squander owl-hours on bracken bedding,
Flesh unshriven.

Against virgin prayer
This sorceress sets mirrors enough
To distract beauty's thought;
Lovesick at first fond song,
Each vain girl's driven

To believe beyond heart's flare
No fire is, nor in any book proof
Sun hoists soul up after lids fall shut;
So she wills all to the black king.
The worst sloven

Vies with best queen over
Right to blaze as satan's wife;
Housed in earth, those million brides shriek out.
Some burn short, some long,
Staked in pride's coven.


Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

To Spring

O THOU with dewy locks who lookest down 
Through the clear windows of the morning turn 
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle  
Which in full choir hails thy approach O Spring! 

The hills tell one another and the listening 5 
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd 
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth 
And let thy holy feet visit our clime! 

Come o'er the eastern hills and let our winds 
Kiss thy perfum¨¨d garments; let us taste 10 
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls 
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. 

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour 
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put 
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head 15 
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee. 
Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

Merlin

 I
Thy trivial harp will never please 
Or fill my craving ear; 
Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, 
Free, peremptory, clear. 
No jingling serenader's art, 
Nor tinkle of piano strings, 
Can make the wild blood start 
In its mystic springs. 
The kingly bard 
Must smile the chords rudely and hard, 
As with hammer or with mace; 
That they may render back 
Artful thunder, which conveys 
Secrets of the solar track, 
Sparks of the supersolar blaze. 
Merlin's blows are strokes of fate, 
Chiming with the forest tone, 
When boughs buffet boughs in the wood; 
Chiming with the gasp and moan 
Of the ice-imprisoned hood; 
With the pulse of manly hearts; 
With the voice of orators; 
With the din of city arts; 
With the cannonade of wars; 
With the marches of the brave; 
And prayers of might from martyrs' cave.

Great is the art, 
Great be the manners, of the bard. 
He shall not his brain encumber 
With the coil of rhythm and number; 
But, leaving rule and pale forethought, 
He shall aye climb 
For his rhyme. 
"Pass in, pass in," the angels say, 
"In to the upper doors, 
Nor count compartments of the floors, 
But mount to paradise 
By the stairway of surprise." 

Blameless master of the games, 
King of sport that never shames, 
He shall daily joy dispense 
Hid in song's sweet influence. 
Forms more cheerly live and go, 
What time the subtle mind 
Sings aloud the tune whereto 
Their pulses beat, 
And march their feet, 
And their members are combined. 

By Sybarites beguiled, 
He shall no task decline; 
Merlin's mighty line 
Extremes of nature reconciled, 
Bereaved a tyrant of his will, 
And made the lion mild. 
Songs can the tempest still, 
Scattered on the stormy air, 
Mold the year to fair increase, 
And bring in poetic peace. 
He shall nor seek to weave, 
In weak, unhappy times, 
Efficacious rhymes; 
Wait his returning strength. 
Bird that from the nadir's floor 
To the zenith's top can soar, 
The roaring orbit of the muse exceeds that journey's length. 
Nor profane affect to hit 
Or compass that, by meddling wit, 
Which only the propitious mind 
Publishes when 'tis inclined. 
There are open hours 
When the God's will sallies free, 
And the dull idiot might see 
The flowing fortunes of a thousand years; 
Sudden, at unawares, 
Self-moved, fly-to the doors, 
Nor sword of angels could reveal 
What they conceal. 

II
The rhyme of the poet 
Modulates the king's affairs; 
Balance-loving Nature 
Made all things in pairs. 
To every foot its antipode; 
Each color with its counter glowed: 
To every tone beat answering tones, 
Higher or graver; 
Flavor gladly blends with flavor; 
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough; 
And match the paired cotyledons. 
Hands to hands, and feet to feet, 
In one body grooms and brides; 
Eldest rite, two married sides 
In every mortal meet. 
Light's far furnace shines, 
Smelting balls and bars, 
Forging double stars, 
Glittering twins and trines. 
The animals are sick with love, 
Lovesick with rhyme; 
Each with all propitious Time 
Into chorus wove. 

Like the dancers' ordered band, 
Thoughts come also hand in hand; 
In equal couples mated, 
Or else alternated; 
Adding by their mutual gage, 
One to other, health and age. 
Solitary fancies go 
Short-lived wandering to and ire, 
Most like to bachelors, 
Or an ungiven maid, 
Nor ancestors, 
With no posterity to make the lie afraid, 
Or keep truth undecayed. 
Perfect-paired as eagle's wings, 
Justice is the rhyme of things; 
Trade and counting use 
The self-same tuneful muse; 
And Nemesis, 
Who with even matches odd, 
Who athwart space redresses 
The partial wrong, 
Fills the just period, 
And finishes the song. 

Subtle rhymes, with ruin rife 
Murmur in the hour of life, 
Sung by the Sisters as they spin; 
In perfect time and measure they 
Build and unbuild our echoing clay. 
As the two twilights of the day 
Fold us music-drunken in.
Written by Yusef Komunyakaa | Create an image from this poem

Potions

 The old woman made mint
Candy for the children
Who'd bolt through her front door,
Silhouettes of the great blue

Heron. She sold ten-dollar potions
 From a half-lit kitchen. Chinese boxes
Furnished with fliers & sinkers. Sassafras
& lizard tongues. They'd walk out

Of the woods or drive in from cities,
Clutching lovesick dollar bills
At a side door that opened beside
A chinaberry tree. Did their eyes

Doubt under Orion as voices
Of the dead spoke? They carried
Photos, locks of hair, nail clippings,
& the first three words of a wish.
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | Create an image from this poem

The Silent Melody

 "BRING me my broken harp," he said;
"We both are wrecks,-- but as ye will,--
Though all its ringing tones have fled,
Their echoes linger round it still;
It had some golden strings, I know,
But that was long-- how long!-- ago.

"I cannot see its tarnished gold,
I cannot hear its vanished tone,
Scarce can my trembling fingers hold
The pillared frame so long their own;
We both are wrecks,-- awhile ago
It had some silver strings, I know,

"But on them Time too long has played
The solemn strain that knows no change,
And where of old my fingers strayed
The chords they find are new and strange,--
Yes! iron strings,-- I know,-- I know,--
We both are wrecks of long ago.

"We both are wrecks,-- a shattered pair, 
Strange to ourselves in time's disguise
What say ye to the lovesick air
That brought the tears from Marian's eyes?
Ay! trust me,-- under breasts of snow
Hearts could be melted long ago!

"Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash
That from his dreams the soldier woke,
And bade him face the lightning flash
When battle's cloud in thunder broke?
Wrecks,-- nought but wrecks!-- the time was when
We two were worth a thousand men!"

And so the broken harp they bring
With pitying smiles that none could blame;
Alas there's not a single string 
Of all that filled the tarnished frame!
But see! like children overjoyed,
His fingers rambling through the void!

"I clasp thee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyre. . .
Nay, guide my wandering fingers. . . There!
They love to dally with the wire
As Isaac played with Esan's hair. . . .
Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune
That Marina called the Breath of June!"

And so they softly gather round:
Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems:
His fingers move: but not a sound!
A silence like the song of dreams. . . .
"There! ye have heard the air," he cries,
"That brought the tears from Marina's eyes!"

Ah, smile not at his fond conceit,
Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain;
To him the unreal sounds are sweet,--
No discord mars the silent strain
Scored on life's latest, starlit page--
The voiceless melody of age.

Sweet are the lips of all that sing,
When Nature's music breathes unsought,
But never yet could voice or string
So truly shape our tenderest thought
As when by life's decaying fire
Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre!


Written by Charles Simic | Create an image from this poem

This Morning

 Enter without knocking, hard-working ant.
I'm just sitting here mulling over
What to do this dark, overcast day?
It was a night of the radio turned down low,
Fitful sleep, vague, troubling dreams.
I woke up lovesick and confused.
I thought I heard Estella in the garden singing
And some bird answering her,
But it was the rain. Dark tree tops swaying
And whispering. "Come to me my desire,"
I said. And she came to me by and by,
Her breath smelling of mint, her tongue
Wetting my cheek, and then she vanished.
Slowly day came, a gray streak of daylight
To bathe my hands and face in.
Hours passed, and then you crawled
Under the door, and stopped before me.
You visit the same tailors the mourners do,
Mr. Ant. I like the silence between us,
The quiet--that holy state even the rain
Knows about. Listen to her begin to fall,
As if with eyes closed,
Muting each drop in her wild-beating heart.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

"Howdy, Honey, Howdy!"

Do' a-stan'in' on a jar, fiah a-shinin' thoo,
Ol' folks drowsin' 'roun' de place, wide awake is Lou,
W'en I tap, she answeh, an' I see huh 'mence to grin,
"Howdy, honey, howdy, won't you step right in?"
Den I step erpon de log layin' at de do',
Bless de Lawd, huh mammy an' huh pap's done 'menced to sno',
Now's de time, ef evah, ef I's gwine to try an' win,
"Howdy, honey, howdy, won't you step right in?"
No use playin' on de aidge, trimblin' on de brink,
Wen a body love a gal, tell huh whut he t'ink;
W'en huh hea't is open fu' de love you gwine to gin,
Pull yo'se'f togethah, suh, an' step right in.
Sweetes' imbitation dat a body evah hyeahed,
Sweetah den de music of a lovesick mockin'-bird,
Comin' f'om de gal you loves bettah den yo' kin,
"Howdy, honey, howdy, won't you step right in?"
At de gate o' heaven w'en de storm o' life is pas',
'Spec' I 'll be a-stan'in', 'twell de Mastah say at las',
"Hyeah he stan' all weary, but he winned his fight wid sin.
Howdy, honey, howdy, won't you step right in?"
Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

Merlin II

 The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs,
Balance-loving nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode,
Each color with its counter glowed,
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough,
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting balls and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.

Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand,
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated,
Adding by their mutual gage
One to other health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and fro,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Not ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.

Perfect paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The serf-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.

Subtle rhymes with ruin rife
Murmur in the house of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure, they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay,
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things