1. T0 MY WIFE
I can write no stately proem As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem I would dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.
And there is nothing left to do But to kiss once again,
and part, Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,-you your Art, Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two Like me and you.
OSCAR WILDE, IRELAND.
2. A RED RED ROSE
O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I
And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run
And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.
ROBERT BURNS, SCOTLAND
I think this poems is about love because he's describing
his love to the readers as defferent abjects like: a red rose and also as a melodie, and he'salso saying how in love he is. he's also letting the reader know that he'll still love that certain person no matter what.
3. HOW DO I LOVE THEE?
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,
I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, I shall but love thee
better after death.
ELIZABETH BROWNING, ENGLANd
I think this poem is about love because he's letting the person that he loves know how much he loves them. he's a;so letting them know that his love for them is pure, and at the end he lets them know that he'll love them better after death.
4. IT'S TRUE
Ay, the pain it costs me to love you as I love you!
For love of you, the air, it hurts, and my heart, and my hat, they hurt me.
Who would buy it from me, this ribbon I am holding, and this sadness of cotton,
white, for making handkerchiefs with? Ay, the pain it costs me to love you as I love
you!
FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA, SPAIN
I think this poem is about love because he's going through alot just to love her.
5. I HARDLY REMEMBER
I hardly remember your voice,
but the pain of you floats in some remote current of my blood.
I carry you in my depths,
trapped in the sludgelike one of those corpses the sea refuses to give up.
It was a spoiled remnant of the South.
A beach without fishing boats, where the sun was for sale.
A stretch of shore, now a jungle of lights and languages that grudgingly offered,
defeated, its obligation of sand.
The night of that day punished us at its whim.
I held you so close I could barely see you.
Autumn was brandishing guffaws and danceband sand the sea tore at the pleasure-
boats in a frenzy.
Your hand balanced, with its steady heat,the wavering tepidness of alcohol.
The gardenscame at me from far away through your skirt.
My high-tide mark rose to the level of your breasts.
Carpets, like tentacles, wriggling down to the strand,
attracted passers-by to the mouth of the clamor.
With lights and curtains, above the tedium the bedrooms murmured in the grand hotels.
There are dark moments when our ballast gives out from so much banging around.
Moments, or centuries,when the flesh revels in its nakedness and reelsto its own destruction,
sucking the life from itself.
I groped around me, trying on your embrace,
but love was not where your embrace was.
I felt your hands stroking that physical achebut a great nothing went before your hands.
I searched, down the length of your soulless surrender,
for a calm bay where I could cast a net,
yearning to hear a trace of the vendor's voicestill wet
with the glimmer of the flapping minnows.
It was a spoiled remnant of the South.
The aroma of muscatel was tainted with whiskey breath.
I carry that dead embrace inside me yet like a foreign object the flesh tries to reject.
RAFAEL GUILLEN, MEXICO
6. EBONY LIFE
A frightening stillness will mark that day
And the shadow of streetlights and fire-alarms will exhaust the light All things,
the quietest and the loudest,
will be silent The suckling brats will die
The tugboats the locomotives the wind will glide
by in silence We will hear the great voice which coming from far away will pass over the city
We will wait a long time for it. Then at the rich man's time of day.
When the dust, the stones, the missing tears, form the sun's robe on the huge deserted squares
We shall finally hear the voice.
It will growl at doors for a long while,
It will pass over the town tearing up flags and breaking windowpanes.
We will hear it What silence before it,
but still greater the silence it will not disturb but will hold guilty will brand and denounce.
Day of sorrows and joys The day the day to come when the voice will pass over the city.
A ghostly seagull told me she loved me as much as I loved her
That this great terrible silence was my love That the wind carrying the voice was the great
revolt of the world And that the voice would look kindly on me.
ROBERT DESNOS, FRANCE
7. YOU'LL LOVE ME YET AND I CAN TARRY
You'll love me yet and I can tarry,
Your love's protracted growing:
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seed
At least is sure to strike,
And yield what you'll not pluck indeed,
Not love, but, may be, like!
You'll look at least on love's remains,
A grave's one violet:Your look? that pays a thousand pains.
What's death? You'll love me yet!
ROBERT BROWNING, ENGLAND
8. THE DEFINITION OF LOVE
My love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis for object strange and high:
It was begotten by Despair Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble Hope could ne'er have flown But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixed
But Fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close:
Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrranic power depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant Poles have placed
(Though Love's whole world on us doth wheel) Not by themselves to be embraced,
Unless the giddy heaven fall, And earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the world should all Be cramped into a planisphere.
As lines (so loves) oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet:
But ours so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind, But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,And opposition of the stars.
ANDREW MARVELL, ENGLAND
9. MY LOVE REVEALS OBJETCTS
My love reveals objects
silken butterflies concealed in his fingers
his words splash me with stars night shines like lightning under the fingers of my love
my love invents worlds where jeweled glittering serpents live
worlds where music is the world worlds where houses with open eyes contemplate the dawn
my love is a mad sunflower that forgets fragments of sun in the silence.
ISABEL FRAIRE, MEXICO
i think this poem is about love because she's comparing her love to many objects.
10. LOVE SONNET 47
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
WILLIAM SHAKEPEARE,ENGLAND
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