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Best Famous Valentine Poems

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

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Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Autumn Valentine

 In May my heart was breaking-
Oh, wide the wound, and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.
And when it came November, I sought my heart, and sighed, "Poor thing, do you remember?" "What heart was that?" it cried.


Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

A Life

 Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year --- Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast Windless threadwork of a tapestry.
Flick the glass with your fingernail: It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork, Every one of them permanently busy.
At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper: Stalling in midair, Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy As Victorian cushions.
This family Of valentine faces might please a collector: They ring true, like good china.
Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.
A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle, The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised, Leave her alone now.
The future is a grey seagull Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her, And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold, Crawls up out of the sea.
Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

A Valentine

 For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure Divine- a talisman- an amulet That must be worn at heart.
Search well the measure- The words- the syllables! Do not forget The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre, If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too, Its letters, although naturally lying Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando- Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying! You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.
Written by Carol Ann Duffy | Create an image from this poem

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 Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

A Valentine

 Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see 
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.
And cannot pleasures, while they last, Be actual unless, when past, They leave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting? And cannot friends be firm and fast, And yet bear parting? And must I then, at Friendship's call, Calmly resign the little all (Trifling, I grant, it is and small) I have of gladness, And lend my being to the thrall Of gloom and sadness? And think you that I should be dumb, And full DOLORUM OMNIUM, Excepting when YOU choose to come And share my dinner? At other times be sour and glum And daily thinner? Must he then only live to weep, Who'd prove his friendship true and deep By day a lonely shadow creep, At night-time languish, Oft raising in his broken sleep The moan of anguish? The lover, if for certain days His fair one be denied his gaze, Sinks not in grief and wild amaze, But, wiser wooer, He spends the time in writing lays, And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast, Till even the poet is aghast, A touching Valentine at last The post shall carry, When thirteen days are gone and past Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet, In desert waste or crowded street, Perhaps before this week shall fleet, Perhaps to-morrow.
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat Of wasting sorrow.
Written by Billy Collins | Create an image from this poem

Picnic Lightning

 It is possible to be struck by a
meteor or a single-engine plane while
reading in a chair at home.
Pedestrians are flattened by safes falling from rooftops mostly within the panels of the comics, but still, we know it is possible, as well as the flash of summer lightning, the thermos toppling over, spilling out on the grass.
And we know the message can be delivered from within.
The heart, no valentine, decides to quit after lunch, the power shut off like a switch, or a tiny dark ship is unmoored into the flow of the body's rivers, the brain a monastery, defenseless on the shore.
This is what I think about when I shovel compost into a wheelbarrow, and when I fill the long flower boxes, then press into rows the limp roots of red impatiens -- the instant hand of Death always ready to burst forth from the sleeve of his voluminous cloak.
Then the soil is full of marvels, bits of leaf like flakes off a fresco, red-brown pine needles, a beetle quick to burrow back under the loam.
Then the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue, the clouds a brighter white, and all I hear is the rasp of the steel edge against a round stone, the small plants singing with lifted faces, and the click of the sundial as one hour sweeps into the next.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Awake ye muses nine

 Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine,
Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine!

Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain,
For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain.
All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair! The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one, Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun; The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be, Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree.
The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small, None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball; The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives, And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves; The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won, And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son.
The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune, The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon, Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows, No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose.
The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide; Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true, And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.
Now to the application, to the reading of the roll, To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul: Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone, Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap'st what thou hast sown.
Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long, And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song? There's Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair, And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair! Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree; Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb, And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time! Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower, And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower -- And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum -- And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home!


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Interrogation Of The Man Of Many Hearts

 Who's she, that one in your arms?

She's the one I carried my bones to
and built a house that was just a cot
and built a life that was over an hour
and built a castle where no one lives
and built, in the end, a song
to go with the ceremony.
Why have you brought her here? Why do you knock on my door with your little stores and songs? I had joined her the way a man joins a woman and yet there was no place for festivities or formalities and these things matter to a woman and, you see, we live in a cold climate and are not permitted to kiss on the street so I made up a song that wasn't true.
I made up a song called Marriage.
You come to me out of wedlock and kick your foot on my stoop and ask me to measure such things? Never.
Never.
Not my real wife.
She's my real witch, my fork, my mare, my mother of tears, my skirtful of hell, the stamp of my sorrows, the stamp of my bruises and also the children she might bear and also a private place, a body of bones that I would honestly buy, if I could buy, that I would marry, if I could marry.
And should I torment you for that? Each man has a small fate allotted to him and yours is a passionate one.
But I am in torment.
We have no place.
The cot we share is almost a prison where I can't say buttercup, bobolink, sugarduck, pumpkin, love ribbon, locket, valentine, summergirl, funnygirl and all those nonsense things one says in bed.
To say I have bedded with her is not enough.
I have not only bedded her down.
I have tied her down with a knot.
Then why do you stick your fists into your pockets? Why do you shuffle your feet like a schoolboy? For years I have tied this knot in my dreams.
I have walked through a door in my dreams and she was standing there in my mother's apron.
Once she crawled through a window that was shaped like a keyhole and she was wearing my daughter's pink corduroys and each time I tied these women in a knot.
Once a queen came.
I tied her too.
But this is something I have actually tied and now I have made her fast.
I sang her out.
I caught her down.
I stamped her out with a song.
There was no other apartment for it.
There was no other chamber for it.
Only the knot.
The bedded-down knot.
Thus I have laid my hands upon her and have called her eyes and her mouth as mine, as also her tongue.
Why do you ask me to make choices? I am not a judge or a psychologist.
You own your bedded-down knot.
And yet I have real daytimes and nighttimes with children and balconies and a good wife.
Thus I have tied these other knots, yet I would rather not think of them when I speak to you of her.
Not now.
If she were a room to rent I would pay.
If she were a life to save I would save.
Maybe I am a man of many hearts.
A man of many hearts? Why then do you tremble at my doorway? A man of many hearts does not need me.
I'm caught deep in the dye of her.
I have allowed you to catch me red-handed, catch me with my wild oats in a wild clock for my mare, my dove and my own clean body.
People might say I have snakes in my boots but I tell you that just once am I in the stirrups, just once, this once, in the cup.
The love of the woman is in the song.
I called her the woman in red.
I called her the woman in pink but she was ten colors and ten women I could hardly name her.
I know who she is.
You have named her enough.
Maybe I shouldn't have put it in words.
Frankly, I think I'm worse for this kissing, drunk as a piper, kicking the traces and determined to tie her up forever.
You see the song is the life, the life I can't live.
God, even as he passes, hand down monogamy like slang.
I wanted to write her into the law.
But, you know, there is no law for this.
Man of many hearts, you are a fool! The clover has grown thorns this year and robbed the cattle of their fruit and the stones of the river have sucked men's eyes dry, season after season, and every bed has been condemned, not by morality or law, but by time.
Written by Delmore Schwartz | Create an image from this poem

Occasional Poems

 I Christmas Poem for Nancy

Noel, Noel
We live and we die
Between heaven and hell
Between the earth and the sky
And all shall be well
And all shall be unwell
And once again! all shall once again!
 All shall be well
By the ringing and the swinging
 of the great beautiful holiday bell
Of Noel! Noel!

II Salute Valentine

I'll drink to thee only with my eyes
When two are three and four,
And guzzle reality's rise and cries
And praise the truth beyond surmise
When small shots shout: More! More! More! More!

III Rabbi to Preach

Rabbi Robert Raaba will preach
 on "An Eye for an Eye"
 (an I for an I?)
(Two weeks from this week: "On the Sacred Would")
At Temple Sholem on Lake Shore Drive
- Pavel Slavensky will chant the liturgical responses
And William Leon, having now thirteen years
 will thank his parents that he exists
To celebrate his birthday of manhood, his chocolate 
Bar Mitzvah, his yum-yum kippered herring, his Russian
 Corona.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Rapunzel

 A woman 
who loves a woman 
is forever young.
The mentor and the student feed off each other.
Many a girl had an old aunt who locked her in the study to keep the boys away.
They would play rummy or lie on the couch and touch and touch.
Old breast against young breast.
.
.
Let your dress fall down your shoulder, come touch a copy of you for I am at the mercy of rain, for I have left the three Christs of Ypsilanti for I have left the long naps of Ann Arbor and the church spires have turned to stumps.
The sea bangs into my cloister for the politicians are dying, and dying so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
.
.
The yellow rose will turn to cinder and New York City will fall in before we are done so hold me, my young dear, hold me.
Put your pale arms around my neck.
Let me hold your heart like a flower lest it bloom and collapse.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
Give me your nether lips all puffy with their art and I will give you angel fire in return.
We are two clouds glistening in the bottle galss.
We are two birds washing in the same mirror.
We were fair game but we have kept out of the cesspool.
We are strong.
We are the good ones.
Do not discover us for we lie together all in green like pond weeds.
Hold me, my young dear, hold me.
They touch their delicate watches one at a time.
They dance to the lute two at a time.
They are as tender as bog moss.
They play mother-me-do all day.
A woman who loves a woman is forever young.
Once there was a witch's garden more beautiful than Eve's with carrots growing like little fish, with many tomatoes rich as frogs, onions as ingrown as hearts, the squash singing like a dolphin and one patch given over wholly to magic -- rampion, a kind of salad root a kind of harebell more potent than penicillin, growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin.
as rapt and as fluid as Isadoran Duncan.
However the witch's garden was kept locked and each day a woman who was with child looked upon the rampion wildly, fancying that she would die if she could not have it.
Her husband feared for her welfare and thus climbed into the garden to fetch the life-giving tubers.
Ah ha, cried the witch, whose proper name was Mother Gothel, you are a thief and now you will die.
However they made a trade, typical enough in those times.
He promised his child to Mother Gothel so of course when it was born she took the child away with her.
She gave the child the name Rapunzel, another name for the life-giving rampion.
Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things.
As she grew older Mother Gothel thought: None but I will ever see her or touch her.
She locked her in a tow without a door or a staircase.
It had only a high window.
When the witch wanted to enter she cried" Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow.
It was as strong as a dandelion and as strong as a dog leash.
Hand over hand she shinnied up the hair like a sailor and there in the stone-cold room, as cold as a museum, Mother Gothel cried: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and thus they played mother-me-do.
Years later a prince came by and heard Rapunzel singing her loneliness.
That song pierced his heart like a valentine but he could find no way to get to her.
Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair.
The next day he himself called out: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, and thus they met and he declared his love.
What is this beast, she thought, with muscles on his arms like a bag of snakes? What is this moss on his legs? What prickly plant grows on his cheeks? What is this voice as deep as a dog? Yet he dazzled her with his answers.
Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick.
They lay together upon the yellowy threads, swimming through them like minnows through kelp and they sang out benedictions like the Pope.
Each day he brought her a skein of silk to fashion a ladder so they could both escape.
But Mother Gothel discovered the plot and cut off Rapunzel's hair to her ears and took her into the forest to repent.
When the prince came the witch fastened the hair to a hook and let it down.
When he saw Rapunzel had been banished he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that prickled him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years until he heard a song that pierced his heart like that long-ago valentine.
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes and in the manner of such cure-alls his sight was suddenly restored.
They lived happily as you might expect proving that mother-me-do can be outgrown, just as the fish on Friday, just as a tricycle.
The world, some say, is made up of couples.
A rose must have a stem.
As for Mother Gothel, her heart shrank to the size of a pin, never again to say: Hold me, my young dear, hold me, and only as she dreamed of the yellow hair did moonlight sift into her mouth.
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