No I don't think so. The poem is the poem, not the feelings. There is a separation even for the person who wrote it.Quote:
Originally Posted by nguyenngoctue
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No I don't think so. The poem is the poem, not the feelings. There is a separation even for the person who wrote it.Quote:
Originally Posted by nguyenngoctue
...
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
Romeo
Alicante
Une orange sur la table
Ta robe sur le tapis
Et toi dans mon lit
Doux présent du présent
Fraîcheur de la nuit
Chaleur de ma vie
--Jacques Prevert
Loose translation:
An orange on the table
Your dress on my rug
And you in my bed
Soft present of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life.
Shakespeare is the best.
Quote:
SONNET 29
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
that sounds like the story of your life dear Virgil.
Quote:
Originally Posted by nguyenngoctue
You asked if The Indian Serenade was still my favourite poem. I must confess I wonder now that I've read yours...
It really is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it...
[IF]
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
--Rudyard Kipling
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another's being mingle--
Why not I with thine?
See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What is all this sweet work worth,
If thou kiss not me?
-- Percy Bysshe Shelley
The sun has burst the sky
Because I love you
And the river its banks
The sea laps the great rocks
Because I love you
And takes no heed of the moon dragging it away
And saying coldly, 'constancy is not for you'.
The blackbird fills the air
Because I love you
With spring and lawn and shadows falling on lawns.
The people walk on the street and laugh
I love you
And far down the river ships sound their hooters
Crazy with joy because I love you
-Jenny Joseph
I love so many of the poems you have posted here, but I just wish you guys could read some of my favourite Icelandic love poems. Many of them are so beautiful that it makes me sad that so few can enjoy them. And by the way most people consider you weird if you read a lot and poems are often considered as a thing of the past or out dated...sad but true.
Maybe I will try to find a translation on some of the poems I love, or do it my self....
I've only just started getting into poetry out of choice so I can't say I have a favourite love poem yet but this is one I really liked especially since I'm not normally into the really soppy stuff.
Poem Ended by a Death
They will wash all my kisses and fingerprints off you
and my tearstains - I was more inclined to weep
in those wild garlicky days - and our happier stains,
thin scales of papery silk...F*** that for a cheap
opener; and false too - any such traces
you pumiced away yourself, those years ago
when you sent my letters back, in the week I married
that anecdotal ape. So start again. So:
They will remove the tubes and drips and dressings
which I censor from my dreams. They will, it is true,
wash you; and they will put you into a box.
After which whatever else they may do
won't matter. This is my laconic style.
You praised it, as I praised your intricate pearled
embroideries; these links laced us together,
plain and purl across the ribs of the world...
Fleur Adcock
I wasn't sure if swearing is 'allowed' here hence the asterisks.
Come, my beloved,
let us go out into the fields
and lie all night among the flowering henna.
Let us go early to the vineyards
to see if the vine has budded,
if the blossoms have opened
and the pomegranate is in flower.
There I will give you my love.
The air is filled with the scent of the mandrakes
and at our doors
rare fruit of every kind, my love,
I have stored away for you.
-- From The Song of Songs
As translated by Ariel Bloch and Chana Bloch
I know it's cliche and not really a love poem, but it is; and too beautiful not to be here:
To be, or not to be; that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die to sleep;
To sleep perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
H.
i don't care how cliche it is , I have always loved it and it means a lot to me on several levels.
Pity me not because the light of day
At close of day no longer walks the sky;
Pity me not for beauties passed away
From field and thicket as the year goes by;
Pity me not the waning of the moon,
Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,
Nor that a man's desire is hushed so soon,
And you no longer look with love on me.
This have I known always: Love is no more
Than the wide blossom which the wind assails,
Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,
Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales:
Pity me that the heart is slow to learn
What the swift mind beholds at every turn.
-- Edna St. Vincent Millay
Has this been posted yet? If 'yes,' it's an encore, if 'no,' it should have been:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
William Shakespeare
dont u find the poem anabelle a bit should i say creepyQuote:
Originally Posted by poeboy
For those of you debating the merit of Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress", I posit Lady Mary Wortley Montague's "The Lover: A Ballad". While I enjoy her tonge-in-cheek description of an ideal lover, she does paint a lovely picture of the ideal, as well as put Marvell and other "Carpe Diem" poets in their place. THE LOVER: A BALLAD
by: Lady Mary Wortley Montague (1689-1762)
I
T length, by so much importunity pressed,
Take, Congreve, at once, the inside of my breast:
This stupid indiff'rence so often you blame,
Is not owing to nature, to fear, or to shame.
I am not so cold as a virgin in lead,
Nor is Sunday's sermon so strong in my head:
I know but too well how time flies along,
That we live but few years, and yet fewer are young.
II
But I hate to be cheated, and never will buy
Long years of repentance for moments of joy.
Oh, was there a man (but where shall I find
Good-sense and good-nature so equally joined?)
Would value his pleasure, contribute to mine;
Not meanly would boast, nor would lewdly design,
Nor over severe, yet not stupidly vain,
For I would have the power, tho' not give the pain.
III
No pedant, yet learned; nor rake-helly gay,
Or laughing, because he has nothing to say;
To all my whole sex obliging and free,
Yet ne'er be he fond of any but me;
In public preserve the decorum that's just,
And shew in his eyes he is true to his trust;
Then rarely approach, and respectfully bow,
But not fulsomely pert, or foppishly low.
IV
But when the long hours of public are past,
And we meet with champagne and a chicken at last,
May ev'ry fond pleasure that moment endear;
Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear!
Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd,
He may cease to be formal, and I to be proud,
Till lost in the joy, we confess that we live,
And he may be rude, and yet I may forgive.
V
And that my delight may be solidly fixed,
Let the friend and the lover be handsomely mixed,
In whose tender bosom my soul may confide,
Whose kindness can soothe me, whose counsel can guide,
From such a dear lover as here I describe,
No danger should fright me, no millions should bribe;
But till this astonishing creature I know
As I long have liv'd chaste, I will keep myself so.
VI
I never will stare with the wanton coquet,
Or be caught by a vain affectation of wit.
The toasters and songsters may try all their art,
But never shall enter the pass of my heart.
I loathe the lewd rake, the dress'd fopling despise:
Before such pursuers the nice virgin flies:
And as Ovid has sweetly in parables told,
We harden like trees, and like rivers grow cold.
:lol:
well, I haven't read all 16 pages of this thread, but I really like
Kublai Kahn for its magical qualities.
My youngest son is named after Oscar Wilde, though, so he always has a soft spot for me..
This is one of my favorites:
George Gordon, Lord Byron
She Walks in Beauty
1
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
2
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
3
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Pablo Neruda's I Do Not Love You
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
I just read through the entire thread--thank you for sharing your favorites; I have added a few to mine! I noticed John Donne has been mentioned a number of times, but to my surprise, my very favorite has not been. So here it is:
The Good-Morrow
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoveres to new worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies was not mixed equally,
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.
Indeed!! Sonnet 116 is my favorite sonnet, and definietly one of my favorite love poems...Quote:
Originally Posted by lavendar1
My favorite is actually a song, For Always, from the movie A.I.
I close my eyes
and there in the shadows I see your light
You come to me out of my dreams across
the night
You take my hand
though you may be so many stars away
I know that our spirits and souls are one
We've circled the moon and we've touched the sun
So here we'll stay
For always, forever
Beyond here and on to eternity
For always, forever
For us there's no time and no space
No barrier love won't erase
Wherever you go
I still know
In my heart you will be
With me
From this day on I'm certain that I'll never be alone
I know what my heart must have always known
That love has a power that's all its own
And for always, forever
Now we can fly
And for always and always
We will go on beyond goodbye
For always, forever
Beyond here and on to eternity
For always and ever
You'll be a part of me
And for always, forever
A thousand tomorrows may cross the sky
And for always and always
We will go on
beyond goodbye
I also love The Highwayman, Annabel Lee, and The Lady of Shalott (though the Lady's love is unrequited).
I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair
DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
Pablo Neruda
Wow, I had never read this one until this morning - very, very nice . . .
-----
From 'The Book of a Monastic Life'
She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth--
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration
where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it's you she receives.
You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.
Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)
Neruda is a maestro :D Another one by him:Quote:
Originally Posted by relohi
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Please Contact Me On My Private Mail Ill Join U In A Little While
Quote:
Originally Posted by Stanislaw
Loreena McKennitt does a lovely version of The Lady of Shalott...it really is pretty.
Wow..., this one really makes me blush :blush: :blush:Quote:
Originally Posted by relohi
This has always been a favorite of mine. It's brief and concise, and it's Pushkin. How can one go wrong?
Untitled
by Alexander Pushkin
I have loved you; even now I may confess
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
but do not let it cause you more distress-
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly,
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I loved you- so sincerely;
I pray God grant another love you so.
It is, of course, translated, but I like it just the same.
There were a lot of lovely poems in this thread! One can definitely never go wrong with Pablo Neruda, he has been among my favorites for a while now...even though I can only understand it in English. A tragedy, I'm certain, as I do wonder what it must be like to understand it in Spanish.
Sara Teasdale is another of those poets whose attention to love I've found to be precious. I think she is severely overlooked in modern times and would love to see more people read her. She has an immense passion that shows through in all of her poetry, not just those written about love. I would highly recommend her to anyone.
*********
These are all Sara's...
TO-NIGHT
The moon is a curving flower of gold,
The sky is still and blue;
The mood was made for the sky to hold,
And I for you.
The moon is a flower without a stem,
The sky is luminous;
Eternity was made for them,
To-night for us.
ENOUGH
It is enough for me by day
To walk the same bright earth with him;
Enough that over us by night
The same great roof of stars is dim.
I have no care to bind the wind
Or set a fetter on the sea--
It is enough to feel his love
Blow like music over me.
TO ONE AWAY
I heard a cry in the night,
A thousand miles it came,
Sharp as a flash of light,
My name, my name!
It was your voice I heard,
You waked and loved me so--
I send you back this word,,
I know, I know!
THE KISS
Before you kissed me only the winds of heaven
Had kissed me, and the tenderness of rain--
Now you have come, how can I care for kisses
Like theirs again?
I sought the sea, she sent her winds to meet me,
They surged about me singing of the south--
I turned my head away to keep still holy
Your kiss upon my mouth.
And swift sweet rains of shining April weather
Found not my lips where living kisses are;
I bowed my head lest they put out my glory
As rain puts out a star.
I am my love's and he is mine forever,
Sealed with a seal and safe forevermore--
Think you that I could let a beggar enter
Where a king stood before?
BECAUSE
Oh, because you never tried
To bow my will or break my pride,
And nothing of the cave-man made
You want to keep me half afraid,
Nor ever with a conquering air
You thought to take me unaware--
Take me, for I love you more
Than I ever loved before.
And since the body's maidenhood
Alone were neither rare nor good
Unless with it I gave to you
A spirit still untrammeled, too,
Take my dreams and take my mind
That were masterless as wind;
And "Master!" I shall say to you
Since you never asked me to.
OFF ALGIERS
Oh give me neither love nor tears,
Nor dreams that sear the night with fire,
Go lightly on your pilgrimage
Unburdened by desire.
Forget me for a month, a year,
But, oh, beloved, think of me
When unexpected beauty burns
Like sudden sunlight on the sea.
I AM NOT YOURS
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love-put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in the rushing wind.
SHE WHO COULD BIND YOU
She who could bind you
Could bind fire to a wall;
She who could hold you
Could hold a waterfall;
She who could keep you
Could keep the wind from blowing
On a warm spring night
With a low moon glowing.
THOSE WHO LOVE
Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile, inconsequent things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride,
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.
*********
I've always thought this poem rather pretty, too.
THE DANGERS OF METAPHOR
Metaphors are not to be trifled with.
A single metaphor can give birth to love.-Milan Kundera
The day when the rainbows came,
I was running up a steep hill toward you,
and, looking up to find you there, said:
That rainbow looks like a halo
around your head. These
were my first words to you
and, ever since, I have held you
against the sky, the way a man holds
a closed letter to the light without opening it,
and what I have seen there is something
I might want to open, carefully,
as if it were addressed to me. But
there are dangers in this, this beginning
with something as heavenly
as a rainbow. So I wait,
holding you up again each day
against a bleaker sky
and you become, this way,
less transparent, less embellished
by the numinous, but more real.
Last night there were no stars anywhere
and, today, desire's prism
held against the sky
yields only a pure white. In fact,
each day now the sky falls
a bit closer to you, merciful
as a guillotine,
keeping you earthbound, flawed--
a human thing only another human thing could love.
-Michael Blumenthal
I love that one-also her Highwayman.Quote:
Originally Posted by Anonymous Angel
Fahriye Abla (*)
The air filled with a pungent charcoal smell
And the doors closed before sunset;
From that neighborhood as languid as a laudanum
You are the only surviving trace in my memory, you
Who smiled at the vast light of her own dreams.
With your eyes, your teeth, and your white neck
What a sweet neighbor you were, Fahriye abla!
Your house was as small as a neat box;
Its balcony thickly intertwined and the shades
Of ivies at the tiny hours of the sunset
Washed over in a nearby hidden brook.
A green flowerpot stood in your window all year round
And in spring acacias blossomed in your garden
What a charming neighbor you were, Fahriye abla!
Earlier you had long hair, then short and styled;
Light-complexioned, you were as tall as an ear of corn,
Your wrists laden with ample golden bracelets
Tickled the heart of all men
And occasionally your short skirt swayed in the wind.
You sang mostly obscene love songs
What a sexy neighbor you were, Fahriye Abla!
Rumors had it that you were in love with that lad
And finally you were married to a man from Erzincan
I don't know whether you still live with your first husband
Or whether you are in Erzincan of snowy mountaintops.
Let my heart recollect the long-forgotten days
Things that live in memory do not change by time
What a nice neighbor you were, Fahriye Abla!
Ahmet Muhip Dranas
Translated by Osman Turkay (1982)
(*) Literally, ``elder sister''; often used as a term of affection or
respect for a somewhat older girl or woman.
This poem telling a kid's platonic love to their young and beatiful neighbour. It's good but not my favorite. Although this is one of most famous poems of poet Ahmet Muhip Dranas.
Blue Bird
There is a blue bird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I am too tough for him,
I say, stay in there,
I am not going to let anybody see you.
Charles Bukowski
I like this one:
Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
My favourite love poem is Sonnet 116. I think that is amazing!
This one is considered the best love poem in Spanish, it was written by Francisco de Quevedo y villegas
"Cerrar podrá mis ojos la postrera
sombra que me llevare el blanco día,
y podrá desatar esta alma mía
hora a su afán ansioso lisonjear;
mas no, de esotra parte, en la ribera
dejare la memoria, en donde ardía;
nadar sabe mi llama el agua fría
y perder el respeto a ley severa
Alma a quien todo un día prisión ha sido,
venas que humor a tanto fuego han dado,
medulas que han gloriosamente ardido,
su cuerpo dejara, no su cuidado;
serán ceniza, mas tendrán sentido;
polvo serán, mas polvo enamorado"
This one was written by Garcilaso de la Vega. Personally, I consider this one much better than the first one.
"Escrito está en mi alma vuestro gesto,
y cuanto yo escribir de vos deseo;
vos sola lo escribisteis, yo lo leo
tan solo, que aun de vos me guardo en esto.
En esto estoy y estaré siempre puesto;
que aunque no cabe en mí cuanto en vos veo,
de tanto bien lo que no entiendo creo,
tomando ya la fe por presupuesto.
Yo no nací sino para quereros;
mi alma os ha cortado a su medida;
por hábito del alma mismo os quiero.
Cuando tengo confieso yo deberos;
por vos nací, por vos tengo la vida,
por vos he de morir, y por vos muero."
The last two verses are specially sweet.
lyrics from Christian Rock group Tree63....
not a poem but poetic none the less, speaks about an agaphe love.
I love you perfectly
I hung my love upon a tree
If freedom is for free
what will it take to make you see,
you're perfectly made,imperfect in every way, you have been saved......
Shaespeare's sonnets have a special place for me.But sonnets 18 and 19 are my favorites.
SONNET 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
i love all the poems of tagore
especially "the crescent moom"
There's a mountain and a hundred miles
between me and the jazz station, but sometimes
I can live with the static, a kind of extra-tempo
air-drum percussion, the dead singer's voice
tanged by smokes and too much gin. Some days,
all I want is no news, none of the time.
On the other hand, this afternoon it wasn't music
pulled me up, but what the field guide calls
the black-chinned hummingbird's "thin, excited chippering."
It had got itself trapped in the garage, and though
the big door was open, it stayed in the window
through which it could clearly see a world.
By the time I heard it, it was so exhausted
it let itself be cupped in my slow man's hands,
and emitted, as I closed it in, a single chip then silence.
At the edge of the woods I knelt and opened my hands.
Not even thumb-thick, its body pulsed with breath,
its wings spread across my palm, its eyelash legs
sprawled left and right, indecorously. I stroked it
as lightly as I could, as I might not my lover's breast
but the down made seemingly of air thereon, and twice.
Then it flew, a slow lilt into the distance. For a while,
even peace seemed possible, in the background
Billie Holiday singing "Strange Fruit."