10 Best Famous Thoughts Of Love Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Thoughts Of Love poems. This is a select list of the best famous Thoughts Of Love poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Thoughts Of Love poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of thoughts of love poems.

• All Famous Thoughts Of Love Poems

 Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee. 
-from Revenge of the Lawn

 January

Janus am I; oldest of potentates; 
Forward I look, and backward, and below 
I count, as god of avenues and gates, 
The years that through my portals come and go. 
I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow; 
I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen; 
My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow, 
My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men. 

February

I am lustration, and the sea is mine! 
I wash the sands and headlands with my tide; 
My brow is crowned with branches of the pine; 
Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide. 
By me all things unclean are purified, 
By me the souls of men washed white again; 
E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died 
Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain. 

March

I Martius am! Once first, and now the third! 
To lead the Year was my appointed place; 
A mortal dispossessed me by a word, 
And set there Janus with the double face. 
Hence I make war on all the human race; 
I shake the cities with my hurricanes; 
I flood the rivers and their banks efface, 
And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains. 

April 

I open wide the portals of the Spring 
To welcome the procession of the flowers, 
With their gay banners, and the birds that sing 
Their song of songs from their aerial towers. 
I soften with my sunshine and my showers 
The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide 
Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours 
Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride. 

May 

Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim 
My coming, and the swarming of the bees. 
These are my heralds, and behold! my name 
Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees. 
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas; 
I waft o'er all the land from far away 
The breath and bloom of the Hesperides, 
My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May. 

June 

Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine 
The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights 
And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, 
The foliage of the valleys and the heights. 
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; 
The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; 
I am the mother of all dear delights; 
I am the fairest daughter of the year. 

July

My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe 
The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land; 
My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe, 
And bent before me the pale harvests stand. 
The lakes and rivers shrink at my command, 
And there is thirst and fever in the air; 
The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand; 
I am the Emperor whose name I bear. 

August

The Emperor Octavian, called the August, 
I being his favorite, bestowed his name 
Upon me, and I hold it still in trust, 
In memory of him and of his fame. 
I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame 
Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage; 
Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim 
The golden Harvests as my heritage. 

September 

I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise 
The night and day; and whenunto my lips 
I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise 
Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships; 
The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips; 
Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight; 
The hedges are all red with haws and hips, 
The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night. 

October 

My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves, 
Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed; 
I do no boast the harvesting of sheaves, 
O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside. 
Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, 
The dreamy air is full, and overflows 
With tender memories of the summer-tide, 
And mingled voices of the doves and crows. 

November

The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, 
Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace; 
With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly, 
A steed Thessalian with a human face. 
Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase 
The leaves, half dead already with affright; 
I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race 
Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight. 

December

Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair, 
I come, the last of all. This crown of mine 
Is of the holly; in my hand I bear 
The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine. 
I celebrate the birth of the Divine, 
And the return of the Saturnian reign;-- 
My songs are carols sung at every shrine, 
Proclaiming "Peace on earth, good will to men."

At twenty-six, I was inexperienced; 
Still, I knew much about love 
In the waste land, reasoning, 
It's not important when you start 
Practicing, rather when you start searching; 
And I committed myself to finding 
It before others even knew it existed, 'breeding 

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing' 
My thoughts, my longings, my love 
For something that didn't need naming 
In the misty mornings, recognizing 
The dew on the petal, alive yet sleepy; 
I was a dreamer, I admit, thinking, 
April is the cruelest month, flying 

Thoughts about some distant teaching, 
Seeing invisible in the visible, loving 
Wild thoughts making love, searching 
To find it; love was a secret hard to decode— 
Sacred to me. Students talking 
Of business, Dante and Michelangelo; 
That was important, yet not so important 

In the land where death died long ago, blooming 
Roses taught me a lesson, doing 
My search for me, wakening 
The land where human measures are important 
Yet not so important; so I stayed, deserving 
A degree from real roses, forgetting 
The Ph.D. at Harvard, which for me was waiting 

Of course it was not about Michelangelo, 
But does it really matter? I saw paintings 
And landscapes, dead lands and lands 
Alive, knowing it's more important 
To feel than to know. I had it all in my head; 
And I stayed where dreaming 
Was more important than competing 

In the land where the women come and go, talking 
Of Sara Bernhardt and Coco Chanel in the Sistine Chapel 
And men come and go, talking 
Of wars, children come and go, talking 
Of chocolate, and they all go, leaving 
Not much to think about exchanging 
Experiences with feelings, transforming 

Experiences into meanings, mixing 
Thoughts about love evaporating 
Into 'the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window panes, 
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes.' 
And in the end I understood April, learning 
That April seemed cruel only in the dead land, knowing 
That every month is equally paradisiacal and hellish, 

Equally paradoxical. 

 The wonderful formation of man.

'Twas from thy hand, my God, I came,
A work of such a curious frame
In me thy fearful wonders shine,
And each proclaims thy skill divine.

Thine eyes did all my limbs survey,
Which yet in dark confusion lay;
Thou saw'st the daily growth they took,
Formed by the model of thy book.

By thee my growing parts were named,
And what thy sovereign counsels framed-
The breathing lungs, the beating heart-
Was copied with unerring art.

At last, to show my Maker's name,
God stamped his image on my frame,
And in some unknown moment joined
The finished members to the mind.

There the young seeds of thought began,
And all the passions of the man:
Great God, our infant nature pays
Immortal tribute to thy praise.

PAUSE.

Lord, since in my advancing age
I've acted on life's busy stage,
Thy thoughts of love to me surmount
The power of numbers to recount.

I could survey the ocean o'er,
And count each sand that makes the shore,
Before my swiftest thoughts could trace
The num'rous wonders of thy grace.

These on my heart are still impressed,
With these I give my eyes to rest;
And at my waking hour I find
God and his love possess my mind.

 Now fie upon him! what is Man,
Whose life at best is but a span?
When to an inch it dwindles down,
Ice in his bones, snow on his Crown,
That he within his crazy brain,
Kind thoughts of Love should entertain,
That he, when Harvest comes should plow
And when 'tis time to reap, go sowe,
Who in imagination only strong,
Tho' twice a Child, can never twice grow young

II.

Nature did those design for Fools,
That sue for work, yet have no tools.
What fellow feeling can there be
In such a strange disparity?
Old age mistakes the youthful breast,
Love dwels not there, but interest:
Alas Good Man! take thy repose,
Get ribband for thy thumbs, and toes,
Provide thee flannel, and a sheet of lead,
Think on thy Coffin, not thy bridal bed.

 Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still 
Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me: 
I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill, 
Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree, 

Or seek heav'n's course, or heav'n's inside to see: 
Why shouldst thou toil our thorny soil to till? 
Leave sense, and those which sense's objects be: 
Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will. 

But thou wouldst needs fight both with love and sense, 
With sword of wit, giving wounds of dispraise, 
Till downright blows did foil thy cunning fence: 

For soon as they strake thee with Stella's rays, 
Reason thou kneel'dst, and offeredst straight to prove 
By reason good, good reason her to love.

SONNET XI.
 
Se lamentar augelli, o Verdi fronde.
 
SHE IS EVER PRESENT TO HIM.
 
 
If the lorn bird complain, or rustling sweepSoft summer airs o'er foliage waving slow,Or the hoarse brook come murmuring down the steep,Where on the enamell'd bank I sit belowWith thoughts of love that bid my numbers flow;'Tis then I see her, though in earth she sleep!Her, form'd in heaven! I see, and hear, and know!Responsive sighing, weeping as I weep:"Alas," she pitying says, "ere yet the hour,Why hurry life away with swifter flight?Why from thy eyes this flood of sorrow pour?No longer mourn my fate! through death my daysBecome eternal! to eternal lightThese eyes, which seem'd in darkness closed, I raise!"
 
Dacre. 
 
[Pg 244] Where the green leaves exclude the summer beam,And softly bend as balmy breezes blow,And where with liquid lapse the lucid streamAcross the fretted rock is heard to flow,Pensive I lay: when she whom earth concealsAs if still living to my eye appears;And pitying Heaven her angel form revealsTo say, "Unhappy Petrarch, dry your tears.Ah! why, sad lover, thus before your timeIn grief and sadness should your life decay,And, like a blighted flower, your manly primeIn vain and hopeless sorrow fade away?Ah! yield not thus to culpable despair;But raise thine eyes to heaven and think I wait thee there!"
 
Charlotte Smith. 
 
Moved by the summer wind when all is still,The light leaves quiver on the yielding spray;Sighs from its flowery bank the lucid rill,While the birds answer in their sweetest lay.Vain to this sickening heart these scenes appear:No form but hers can meet my tearful eyes;In every passing gale her voice I hear;It seems to tell me, "I have heard thy sighs.But why," she cries, "in manhood's towering prime,In grief's dark mist thy days, inglorious, hide?Ah! dost thou murmur, that my span of timeHas join'd eternity's unchanging tide?Yes, though I seem'd to shut mine eyes in night,They only closed to wake in everlasting light!"
 
Anne Bannerman.

 O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is 't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deservest alone.
O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain!

 Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself away art resent still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.

 Yes, holy be thy resting place
Wherever thou may'st lie;
The sweetest winds breathe on thy face,
The softest of the sky. 

And will not guardian Angles send
Kind dreams and thoughts of love,
Though I no more may watchful bend
Thy longed repose above? 

And will not heaven itself bestow
A beam of glory there
That summer's grass more green may grow,
And summer's flowers more fair? 

Farewell, farewell, 'tis hard to part
Yet, loved one, it must be:
I would not rend another heart
Not even by blessing thee. 

Go! We must break affection's chain,
Forget the hopes of years:
Nay, grieve not - willest thou remain
To waken wilder tears 

This herald breeze with thee and me,
Roved in the dawning day:
And thou shouldest be where it shall be
Ere evening, far away.