Romantic poet looking for true love

Added: Granville Flanders - Date: 05.12.2021 11:52 - Views: 39981 - Clicks: 5653

Roses are red, Violets are…I guess I should leave the love poems to the experts. And there are so many experts to choose from. Since the days of epic poetry, poets have used sonnets, free verse, villanelles, slam poetryshort poemsand even instagram poetry to describe love. Some are classic love poems.

Some love poems were posted on social media this year. Some rhyme. Most are romantic. A few are sad or angry. All of them are beautiful. All of them are about love. You are a ukulele beyond my microphone You are a Yukon beyond my Micronesia You are a union beyond my meiosis You are a unicycle beyond my migration You are a universe beyond my mitochondria You are a Eucharist beyond my Miles Davis You are a euphony beyond my myocardiogram You are a unicorn beyond my Minotaur You are a eureka beyond my maitai You are a Yuletide beyond my minesweeper You are a euphemism beyond my myna bird.

Which checks the insurance, and doesnt forget The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs. And maintenance is the sensible side of love, Which knows what time and weather are doing To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring; Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps My suspect edifice upright in air, As Atlas did the sky. Offering me, as toan attic, Gatherings of days too few. Baubles of stolen kisses.

Trinkets of borrowed loves. Trunks of secret words. What was that sound that came in on the dark? What is this maze of light it leaves us in? What is this stance we take, To turn away and then turn back? What did we hear? I think I was searching for treasures or stones in the clearest of pools when your face….

A post shared by pavana reddy mazadohta on Apr 21, at am PDT. I came to you one rainless August night. You taught me how to live without the rain. You are thirst and thirst is all I know. You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky, The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brand Your breath into my mouth. You reach—then bend Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new. You wrap your name tight around my ribs And keep me warm.

I was born for you. Above, below, by you, by you surrounded. I wake to you at dawn. Never break your Knot. Salva, traga, Break me, I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst. This sounds wonderful to everyone who suffers from lacking, but consider, too, that a ravine keeps nothing out:.

I have an easygoing way about me. Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth—nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking thefield by force; the grass does not raise above it. Here is no question of whiteness, white as can be, with a purple mole at the center of each flower. Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blossom under his touch to which the fibres of her being stem one by one, each to its end, until the whole field is a white desire, empty, a single stem, a cluster, flower by flower, a pious wish to whiteness gone over— or nothing.

I love you as a sheriff searches for a walnut That will solve a murder case unsolved for years Because the murderer left it in the snow beside a window Through which he saw her head, connecting with Her shoulders by a neck, and laid a red Roof in her heart. For this we live a thousand years; For this we love, and we live because we love, we are not Inside a bottle, thank goodness! I love you as the sunlight le the prow Of a ship which sails From Hartford to Miami, and I love you Best at dawn, when even before I am awake the sun Receives me in the questions which you always pose.

Sometimes she is like sherry, like the sun through a vessel of glass, Like light through an oriel window in a room of yellow wood; Sometimes she is the colour of lions, of sand in the fire of noon, Sometimes as bruised with shadows as the afternoon.

Sometimes she moves like rivers, sometimes like trees; Or tranced and fixed like South Pole silences; Sometimes she is beauty, sometimes fury, sometimes neither, Sometimes nothing, drained Romantic poet looking for true love meaning, null as water. A post shared by amanda lovelace ladybookmad on Oct 29, at pm PDT. When we are old and these rejoicing veins Are frosty channels to a muted stream, And out of all our burning their remains No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream, This be our solace: that it was not said When we were young and warm and in our prime, Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead, Sleeping away the unreturning time.

O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love, When morning strikes her spear upon the land, And we must rise and arm us and reprove The insolent daylight with a steady hand, Be not discountenanced if the knowing know We rose from rapture but an hour ago. She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. And her voice is a string of coloured be, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways re; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

Typewriter Series by Tyler Knott Gregson …. Go grab some holiday gifts at chasersofthelight. Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene; Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. Only your word will heal the injury To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean— Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene.

Upon my word, I tell you faithfully Through life and Romantic poet looking for true love death you are my queen; For with my death the whole truth shall be seen. Some say a cavalry corps, some infantry, some, again, will maintain that the swift oars of our fleet are the finest sight on dark earth; but I say that whatever one loves, is. So Anactoria, although you being far away forget us, the dear sound of your footstep and light glancing in your eyes would move me more than glitter of Lydian horse or armored tread of mainland infantry. Love Is a ripe plum Growing on a purple tree.

Taste it once And the spell of its enchantment Will never let you be. Love Is a bright star Glowing in far Southern skies. Look too hard And its burning flame Will always hurt your eyes. Love Is a high mountain Stark in a windy sky. If you Would never lose your breath Do not climb too high. I love you for what you are, but I love you yet more for what you are going to be. I love you not so much for your realities as for your Romantic poet looking for true love.

I pray for your desires that they may be great, rather than for your satisfactions, which may be so hazardously little.

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A satisfied flower is one whose petals are about to fall. The most beautiful rose is one hardly more than a bud wherein the pangs and ecstasies of desire are working for a larger and finer growth. Not always shall you be what you are now. You are going forward toward something great. I am on the way with you and therefore I love you. 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 freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

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. Do you remember still the falling stars that like swift horses through the heavens raced and suddenly leaped across the hurdles of our wishes—do you recall? And we did make so many! For there were countless s of stars: each time we looked above we were astounded by the swiftness of their daring play, while in our hearts we felt safe and secure watching these brilliant bodies disintegrate, knowing somehow we had survived their fall.

Speak earth and bless me with what is richest make sky flow honey out of my hips rigis mountains spread over a valley carved out by the mouth of rain.

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And I knew when I entered her I was high wind in her forests hollow fingers whispering sound honey flowed from the split cup impaled on a lance of tongues on the tips of her breasts on her navel and my breath howling into her entrances through lungs of pain. Greedy as herring-gulls or I swing out over the earth over and over again. I am ready to forsake this worldly life and surrender to the magnificence of your Being. I want to grow something. It seems impossible that desire can sometimes transform into devotion; but this has happened. I think I made you up inside my head.

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. My backpacking trip brought poems. Doors at pm. More info on my story. A post shared by Aman K. Batra amankbatra on Jan 4, at am PST. When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower.

But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me. Edit of an older poem. Bluebird Typewriter Poetry 7 poetry seanbates typewriter writersofinstagram. You and I Have so much love, That it Burns like a fire, In which we bake a lump of clay Molded into a figure of you And a figure of me.

Then we take both of them, And break them into pieces, And mix the pieces with water, And mold again a figure of you, And a figure of me.

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I am in your clay. You are in my clay. In life we share a single quilt. In death we will share one bed. O never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost. And, alas! How little I thought, a year ago, In the horrible cottage upon the Lee That he and I should be sitting so And sipping a cup of camomile tea. Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we! Under the kitchen-table leg My knee is pressing against his knee. Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, The tap is dripping peacefully; The saucepan shadows on the wall Are black and round and plain to see. What are your favorite love poems?

Romantic poet looking for true love

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True Love Poems