Here are the 85 best handpicked poems about secret love categorized:
- Poems about secret love affairs
- Poems about secret love to a friend
- Poems about secret love crushes
- Poems about illicit love
So you want the best collection of secret love poems, then you’re in the right place.
Keep reading!
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- 67 Best Poems About Cheating
- 143 Best Poems About Loving Someone You Shouldn’t
- 69 Somber Poems About Loving Someone You Can’t Have
Our Handpicked Poems About Secret Love
Discover a handpicked selection of the most exquisite poems about secret love, thoughtfully categorized for your convenience.
Whether you seek works that explore the allure of secret love affairs or contemplate the forbidden nature of illicit love, our collection showcases a diverse range of examples.
With our carefully curated selection, you can find the best poems about secret love all in one convenient location.
So take a moment to explore and discover the passion, longing, and mystery that come with this elusive type of love!
Let’s dive into it!
My Favorite Poem About Secret Love
Secrecy Protestedby Thomas Carew
Fear not, dear love, that I’ll revealThose hours of pleasure we two steal;No eye shall see, nor yet the sunDescry, what thou and I have done.No ear shall hear our love, but weSilent as the night will be;The god of love himself (whose dartDid first wound mine and then thy heart),Shall never know that we can tellWhat sweets in stol’n embraces dwell.This only means may find it out;If, when I die, physicians doubtWhat caused my death, and there to viewOf all their judgements which was true,Rip up my heart, oh! then, I fear,The world will see thy picture there.
Poems About Secret Love Affairs
The Secretby Paul Laurence Dunbar
What says the wind to the waving trees?What says the wave to the river?What means the sigh in the passing breeze?Why do the rushes quiver?Have you not heard the fainting cryOf the flowers that said “Good-bye, good-bye”?
List how the gray dove moans and grievesUnder the woodland cover;List to the drift of the falling leaves,List to the wail of the lover.Have you not caught the message heardAlready by wave and breeze and bird?
Come, come away to the river’s bank,Come in the early morning;Come when the grass with dew is dank,There you will find the warning-A hint in the kiss of the quickening airOf the secret that birds and breezes bear.
The Secretaryby Matthew Prior
While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,And in one day atone for the business of six,In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night,On my left hand my Horace, a W* on my rightNo memoirs to compose, and no postboy to move,That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee:This night and the next shall be here, shall be mine,To good or ill fortune the third we resign:Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,I drive on my car in processional state;So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode,Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,Where people knew love, and were partial to verse;Since none can with justice my pleasure oppose,In Holland half drown’d in interest and prose?By Greece and past ages what need I be tried,When the Hague and the present are both on my side?And is it enough for the joys of the dayTo think what Anacreon or Sappho would say?When good Vendergoes and his provident Vrow,As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allowThat search all the province, you’ll find no man dar isSo bless’d as the English heer Secretar’ is.
The Secretby Friedrich Schiller
She sought to breathe one word, but vainly;Too many listeners were nigh;And yet my timid glance read plainlyThe language of her speaking eye.Thy silent glades my footstep presses,Thou fair and leaf-embosomed grove!Conceal within thy green recessesFrom mortal eye our sacred love!
Afar with strange discordant noises,The busy day is echoing;And ‘mid the hollow hum of voices,I hear the heavy hammer ring.‘Tis thus that man, with toil ne’er endingExtorts from heaven his daily bread;Yet oft unseen the Gods are sendingThe gifts of fortune on his head!
Oh, let mankind discover neverHow true love fills with bliss our heartsThey would but crush our joy forever,For joy to them no glow imparts.Thou ne’er wilt from the world obtain it -‘Tis never captured save as prey;Thou needs must strain each nerve to gain it,E’er envy dark asserts her sway.
The hours of night and stillness loving,It comes upon us silently -Away with hasty footstep movingSoon as it sees a treacherous eye.Thou gentle stream, soft circlets weaving,A watery barrier cast around,And, with thy waves in anger heaving,Guard from each foe this holy ground!
The Secret Combinationby Ellis Parker Butler
Her heart she locked fast in her breast,Away from molestation;The lock was warranted the best-A patent combination.She knew no simple lock and keyWould serve to keep out Love and me.
But Love a clever cracksman is,And cannot be resisted;He likes such stubborn jobs as this,Complex and hard and twisted,And though we worked a many day,At last we bore her heart away.
For Love has learned full many tricksIn his strange avocation;He knew the figures were but sixIn this, her combination;Nor did we for a minute restUntil we had unlocked her breast.
First, then, we turned the knob to “Sighs,”Then back to “Words Sincerest,”Then “Gazing Fondly in Her Eyes,”Then “Softly Murmured ‘Dearest;’”Then, next, “A Warm Embrace” we tried,And at “A Kiss” the door flew wide.
Love Sleepby Elsa Gidlow
Watch my Love in sleep:Is she not beautifulAs a young flower at nightWeary and glad with dew?
Pale curved bodyThat I have kissed too much,Warm with slumber’s flush;Breasts like mounded snow,Too small for children’s mouths;Lips a red spring budMy love will bring to bloom.
How restlessly she moves!She, no more than a child,Stirs like a woman troubledWith guilt of secret sins.
Twin furtive tearsGlide from the shadows,Her eyes’ shadowed blue.Her dreaming must be sad.
What grief to watching loveThat it is impotent,For all its reckless strength,When the sleep gates close.
The Secret Roseby William Butler Yeats
Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,Enfold me in my hour of hours; where thoseWho sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,Or in the wine vat, dwell beyond the stirAnd tumult of defeated dreams; and deepAmong pale eyelids, heavy with the sleepMen have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfoldThe ancient beards, the helms of ruby and goldOf the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyesSaw the Pierced Hands and Rood of elder riseIn druid vapour and make the torches dim;Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and himWho met Fand walking among flaming dewBy a gray shore where the wind never blew,And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;And him who drove the gods out of their liss,And till a hundred morns had flowered red,Feasted and wept the barrows of his dead;And the proud dreaming king who flung the crownAnd sorrow away, and calling bard and clownDwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods;And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,And sought through lands and islands numberless years,Until he found with laughter and with tears,A woman, of so shining loveliness,That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,A little stolen tress. I, too, awaitThe hour of thy great wind of love and hate.When shall the stars be blown about the sky,Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?
Love’s Secretby William Blake
Never seek to tell thy love,Love that never told can be;For the gentle wind does moveSilently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,I told her all my heart;Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,Ah! she did depart!
Soon as she was gone from me,A traveler came by,Silently, invisiblyHe took her with a sigh.
Sonnet 154by William Shakespeare
The little Love-god lying once asleep,Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,Whilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to keepCame tripping by; but in her maiden handThe fairest votary took up that fireWhich many legions of true hearts had warm’d;And so the general of hot desireWas, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm’d.This brand she quenched in a cool well by,Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual,Growing a bath and healthful remedy,For men diseas’d; but I, my mistress’ thrall,Came there for cure and this by that I prove,Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.
To His Forsaken Mistressby Sir Robert Ayton
I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair,And I might have gone near to love thee,Had I not found the slightest prayerThat lips could move, had power to move thee;But I can let thee now aloneAs worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet findThee such an unthrift of thy sweets,Thy favours are but like the windThat kisseth everything it meets:And since thou canst with more than one,Thou’rt worthy to be kiss’d by none.
The morning rose that untouch’d standsArm’d with her briers, how sweet she smells!But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder hands,Her sweets no longer with her dwells:But scent and beauty both are gone,And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betideWhen thou hast handled been awhile,With sere flowers to be thrown aside;And I shall sigh, while some will smile,To see thy love to every oneHath brought thee to be loved by none.
Meetingby George Crabbe
My Damon was the first to wakeThe gentle flame that cannot die;My Damon is the last to takeThe faithful bosom’s softest sigh:The life between is nothing worth,O cast it from thy thought away!Think of the day that gave it birth,And this its sweet returning day.
Buried be all that has been done,Or say that naught is done amiss;For who the dangerous path can shunIn such bewildering world as this?But love can every fault forgive,Or with a tender look reprove;And now let naught in memory liveBut that we meet, and that we love.
Ballade of the Golfer in Loveby Clinton Scollard
In the “foursome” some would fainFind nepenthe for their woe;Following through shine or rainWhere the “greens” like satin show;But I vote such sport as “slow”Find it rather glum and gruesome;With a little maid I knowI would play a quiet “twosome”!
In the “threesome,” some maintain,Lies excitement’s gayest glow,Strife that mounts unto the brainLike the sparkling Veuve Clicquot;My opinion? Nay, not so!Noon or eve or morning dewsomeWith a little maid I knowI would play a quiet “twosome”!
Bays of glory some would gainWith grim “Bogey” for their foe;(He’s a bogey who’s not slainSave one smite with canny blow!)Yet I hold this tame, and thoughMy refrain seems trite, ’tis truesome;With a little maid I knowI would play a quiet “twosome”!
envoy
Comrades all who golfing go,Happiness, if you would view some,With a little maid you know,Haste and play a quiet “twosome”!
Meeting at Nightby Robert Browning
The gray sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Februaryby Sara Teasdale
They spoke of him I loveWith cruel words and gay;My lips kept silent guardOn all I could not say.
I heard, and down the streetThe lonely trees in the squareStood in the winter windPatient and bare.
I heard… oh voiceless treesUnder the wind, I knewThe eager terrible springHidden in you.
Hidden Loveby William Henry Davies
The bird of Fortune sings when free,But captured, soon grows dumb; and we,To hear his fast declining powers,Must soon forget that he is ours.So, when I win that maid, no doubtLove soon will seem to be half out;Like blighted leaves drooped to the ground,Whose roots are still untouched and sound,So will our love’s root still be strongWhen others think the leaves go wrong.Though we may quarrel, ’twill not proveThat she and I are less in love;The parrot, though he mocked the dove,Died when she died, and proved his love.When merry springtime comes, we hearHow all things into love must stir;How birds would rather sing than eat,How joyful sheep would rather bleat:And daffodils nod heads of gold,And dance in April’s sparkling cold.So in our early love did weDance much and skip, and laugh with glee:But let none think our love is flownIf, when we’re married, little’s shown:E’en though our lips be dumb of song,Our hearts can still be singing strong.
To a Poetby Richard Le Gallienne
As one, the secret lover of a queen,Watches her move within the people’s eye,Hears their poor chatter as she passes by,And smiles to think of what his eyes have seen;The little room where love did ‘shut them in,’The fragrant couch whereon they twain did lie,And rests his hand where on his heart doth dieA bruised daffodil of last night’s sin:
So, Poet, as I read your rhyme once moreHere where a thousand eyes may read it too,I smile your own sweet secret smile at thoseWho deem the outer petals of the roseThe rose’s heart – I, who through grace of you,Have known it for my own so long before.
Mornby Richard Le Gallienne
Morn hath a secret that she never tells:‘Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes -I think it is the way to Paradise,Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells.The bee hath no such honey in her cellsSweet as the balm that in her bosom lies,As in her garden of the budding skiesShe walks among the silver asphodels.
He that is loveless and of heart forlorn,Let him but leave behind his haunted bed,And set his feet toward yonder singing star,Shall have for sweetheart this same secret morn;She shall come running to him from afar,And on her cool breast lay his lonely head.
Poems About Secret Love to a Friend
Renouncementby Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,I shun the thought that lurks in all delight-The thought of thee-and in the blue Heaven’s height,And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throngThis breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright;But it must never, never come in sight;I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,-With the first dream that comes with the first sleepI run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
Love Songby Elsa Gidlow
My love, you destroy me, you rend,You tear me apart.You are a wild swan I have caughtAnd housed in my heart.
My sister, my love, I am shattered,Broken, dismayed.The live wings, the wild wings are beating,They make me afraid.
Fold your wings, brood like a dove,Be a dove I can cherishMore calmly, my dear, my tempestuous love,Or I perish.
Friendship After Loveby Ella Wheeler Wilcox
After the fierce midsummer all ablazeHas burned itself to ashes, and expiresIn the intensity of its own fires,There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin daysCrowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.So after Love has led us, till he tiresOf his own throes, and torments, and desires,Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze,He beckons us to follow, and acrossCool verdant vales we wander free from care.Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.
A Maidenby Sara Teasdale
Oh if I were the velvet roseUpon the red rose vine,I’d climb to touch his windowAnd make his casement fine.
And if I were the little birdThat twitters on the tree,All day I’d sing my love for himTill he should harken me.
But since I am a maidenI go with downcast eyes,And he will never hear the songsThat he has turned to sighs.
And since I am a maidenMy love will never knowThat I could kiss him with a mouthMore red than roses blow.
Lonelinessby Elsa Gidlow
This loneliness encaged in meThat has no curious heart for life,No ribald blood, no treacherous fleshNor golden wickedness of song,This loneliness that prays in me,Is it not somewhat like a nun?
See the clasped hands, the secret eyes,The lips pressed close for fear of love!What if I make her drunk one dayWith wine or some unholy needThen leave the cell door open wide-Think you she might be tempted out?
The Secretby Jean Blewett
The throng about her did not know,Her nearest friend could not surmiseWhence came the brightness and the glow,The wondrous radiance of her eyes.
One said, half enviously: “Your faceIs beautiful with gladness rare,With that warm, generous heart of yoursSome precious secret you must share.”
Ah, true beneath the filmy laceThat rose and fell upon her breast,Her first love-taken held its place -From him, from him whom she loved best!
Secret Loveby John Clare
I hid my love when young till ICouldn’t bear the buzzing of a fly;I hid my love to my despiteTill I could not bear to look at light:I dare not gaze upon her faceBut left her memory in each place;Where eer I saw a wild flower lieI kissed and bade my love good bye.
I met her in the greenest dellsWhere dewdrops pearl the wood blue bellsThe lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye,The bee kissed and went singing by,A sunbeam found a passage there,A gold chain round her neck so fair;As secret as the wild bee’s songShe lay there all the summer long.
I hid my love in field and townTill een the breeze would knock me down,The bees seemed singing ballads oer,The fly’s bass turned a lion’s roar;And even silence found a tongue,To haunt me all the summer long;The riddle nature could not proveWas nothing else but secret love.
I know I am but summer to your heart (Sonnet XXVII)by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I know I am but summer to your heart,And not the full four seasons of the year;And you must welcome from another partSuch noble moods as are not mine, my dear.No gracious weight of golden fruits to sellHave I, nor any wise and wintry thing;And I have loved you all too long and wellTo carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,That you may hail anew the bird and roseWhen I come back to you, as summer comes.Else will you seek, at some not distant time,Even your summer in another clime.
Sonnet 87by William Shakespeare
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,And like enough thou know’st thy estimate,The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;My bonds in thee are all determinate.For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?And for that riches where is my deserving?The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,And so my patent back again is swerving.Thy self thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,Or me to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,Comes home again, on better judgement making.Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
Philomelby Richard Barnfield
As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone:She, poor bird, as all forlornLean’d her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,That to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;Tereu, Tereu! by and by;That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:King Pandion he is dead,All thy friends are lapp’d in lead;All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity me.
The Libertineby Aphra Behn
A thousand martyrs I have made,All sacrificed to my desire,A thousand beauties have betray’dThat languish in resistless fire:The untamed heart to hand I brought,And fix’d the wild and wand’ring thought.
I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain,But both, tho’ false, were well received;The fair are pleased to give us pain,And what they wish is soon believed:And tho’ I talk’d of wounds and smart,Love’s pleasures only touch’d my heart.
Alone the glory and the spoilI always laughing bore away;The triumphs without pain or toil,Without the hell the heaven of joy;And while I thus at random roveDespise the fools that whine for love.
Songby William Browne
For her gait, if she be walking;Be she sitting, I desire herFor her state’s sake; and admire herFor her wit if she be talking;Gait and state and wit approve her;For which all and each I love her.
Be she sullen, I commend herFor a modest. Be she merry,For a kind one her prefer I.Briefly, everything doth lend herSo much grace, and so approve her,That for everything I love her.
My Delight and Thy Delightby Robert Bridges
My delight and thy delightWalking, like two angels white,In the gardens of the night:
My desire and thy desireTwining to a tongue of fire,Leaping live, and laughing higher:
Thro’ the everlasting strifeIn the mystery of life.
Love, from whom the world begun,Hath the secret of the sun.
Love can tell, and love alone,Whence the million stars were strewn,Why each atom knows its own,How, in spite of woe and death,Gay is life, and sweet is breath:
This he taught us, this we knew,Happy in his science true,Hand in hand as we stood‘Neath the shadows of the wood,Heart to heart as we layIn the dawning of the day.
Earl Mertoun’s Songby Robert Browning
There’s a woman like a dewdrop, she ‘s so purer than the purest;And her noble heart ‘s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest:And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustreHid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble:Then her voice’s music … call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble!
And this woman says, ‘My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, Parch’d the pleasant April herbage, and the lark’s heart’s outbreak tuneless,If you loved me not!’ And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her,Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her—I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me,And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!
Memoryby William Browne
So shuts the marigold her leavesAt the departure of the sun;So from the honeysuckle sheavesThe bee goes when the day is done;So sits the turtle when she is but one,And so all woe, as I since she is gone.
To some few birds kind Nature hathMade all the summer as one day:Which once enjoy’d, cold winter’s wrathAs night they sleeping pass away.Those happy creatures are, that know not yetThe pain to be deprived or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there beSome that with confidence professThe helpful Art of Memory:But could they teach Forgetfulness,I’d learn; and try what further art could doTo make me love her and forget her too.
The Lost Mistressby Robert Browning
All ‘s over, then: does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns gray.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul for ever!—
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
She Walks in Beautyby Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that ‘s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow’d to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair’d the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o’er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
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!
Friendshipby Hartley Coleridge
When we were idlers with the loitering rills,The need of human love we little noted:Our love was nature; and the peace that floatedOn the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills,To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills:One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted,That, wisely doting, ask’d not why it doted,And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.But now I find how dear thou wert to me;That man is more than half of nature’s treasure,Of that fair beauty which no eye can see,Of that sweet music which no ear can measure;And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure,The hills sleep on in their eternity.
Hidden Flameby John Dryden
I feed a flame within, which so torments meThat it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:‘Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,That I had rather die than once remove it.
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,But they fall silently, like dew on roses.
Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel,My heart ‘s the sacrifice, as ’tis the fuel;And while I suffer this to give him quiet,My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.To be more happy I dare not aspire,Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
If Doughty Deedsby Robert Cunninghame-Graham of Gartmore
If doughty deeds my lady please,Right soon I’ll mount my steed;And strong his arm and fast his seat,That bears frae me the meed.I’ll wear thy colours in my cap,Thy picture in my heart;And he that bends not to thine eyeShall rue it to his smart!Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;O tell me how to woo thee!For thy dear sake nae care I’ll take,Tho’ ne’er another trow me.
If gay attire delight thine eyeI’ll dight me in array;I’ll tend thy chamber door all night,And squire thee all the day.If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,These sounds I’ll strive to catch;Thy voice I’ll steal to woo thysel’,That voice that nane can match.Then tell me how to woo thee, Love…
But if fond love thy heart can gain,I never broke a vow;Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,I never loved but you.For you alone I ride the ring,For you I wear the blue;For you alone I strive to sing,O tell me how to woo!Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;O tell me how to woo thee!For thy dear sake nae care I’ll takeTho’ ne’er another trow me.
Proud Word You Never Spokeby Walter Savage Landor
Proud word you never spoke, but you will speakFour not exempt from pride some future day.Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek,Over my open volume you will say,‘This man loved me’—then rise and trip away.
The Triumphby Ben Jonson
See the Chariot at hand here of Love,Wherein my Lady rideth!Each that draws is a swan or a dove,And well the car Love guideth.As she goes, all hearts do dutyUnto her beauty;And enamour’d do wish, so they mightBut enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll that Love’s world compriseth!Do but look on her hair, it is brightAs Love’s star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead’s smootherThan words that soothe her;And from her arch’d brows such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the lifeAll the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touch’d it?Have you mark’d but the fall of the snowBefore the soil hath smutch’d it?Have you felt the wool of beaver,Or swan’s down ever?Or have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier,Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
Sweetest of Maidens, Oh, How Can I Tellby Louisa May Alcott
Sweetest of maidens, oh, how can I tellThe love that transfigures the whole earth to me?The longing that causes my bosom to swell,When I dream of a life all devoted to thee?
When, Dearest, I but Think of Theeby Sir John Suckling
When, dearest, I but think of thee,Methinks all things that lovely beAre present, and my soul delighted:For beauties that from worth ariseAre like the grace of deities,Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the dayWith all his borrow’d lights away,Till night’s black wings do overtake me,Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,As sudden lights do sleepy men,So they by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying provesNo absence can subsist with lovesThat do partake of fair perfection:Since in the darkest night they mayBy love’s quick motion find a wayTo see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each floodBathe some high promont that hath stoodFar from the main up in the river:O think not then but love can doAs much! for that ‘s an ocean too,Which flows not every day, but ever!
The Rose’s Secretby Madison Julius Cawein
When down the west the new moon slipped,A curved canoe that dipped and tipped,When from the rose the dewdrop dripped,As if it shed its heart’s blood slow;As softly silent as a starI climbed a lattice that I know,A window lattice, held ajarBy one slim hand as white as snow:The hand of her who set me here,A rose, to bloom from year to year.
I, who have heard the bird of JuneSing all night long beneath the moon;I, who have heard the zephyr croonSoft music ‘mid spring’s avenues,Heard then a sweeter sound than these,Among the shadows and the dewsA heart that beat like any bee’s,Sweet with a name and I know whose:Her heart that, leaning, pressed on me,A rose, she never looked to see.
O star and moon! O wind and bird!Ye hearkened, too, but never heardThe secret sweet, the whispered wordI heard, when by her lips his nameWas murmured. Then she saw me there!But that I heard was I to blame?Whom in the darkness of her hairShe thrust since I had heard the same:Condemned within its deeps to lie,A rose, imprisoned till I die.
Secretsby Bliss Carman (William)
Three secrets that never were said:The stir of the sap in the spring,The desire of a man to a maid,The urge of a poet to sing.
That the Eye Bewrayeth Alway the Secret Affections of the Heartby Sir Thomas Wyatt
And if an eye may save or slay,And strike more deep than weapon long;And if an eye by subtle play,May move one more than any tongue;How can ye say that I do wrong,Thus to suspect without desert?For the eye is traitor to the heart.To frame all well, I am contentThat it were done unweetingly;But yet I say, (who will assent,)To do but well, do nothing whyThat men should deem the contrary;For it is said by men expert;That the eye is traitor of the heart.But yet, alas! that look, all soul,That I do claim of right to have,Should not, methink —— go seek the school,To please all folk, for who can craveFriendlier thing than heart witsaveBy look to give in friendly part;For the eye is traitor of the heart.And my suspect is without blame;For as ye say, not only IBut other mo have deem’d the same;Then is it not jealousy,But subtle look of reckless eyeDid range too far, to make me smart;For the eye is traitor of the heart.But I your Friend shall take it thus,Since you will so, as stroke of chance;And leave further for to discuss,Whether the stroke did stick or glance?But ’scuse who can let him advanceDissembled looks, but for my part,My eye must still betray my heart.And of this grief ye shall be quit,In helping Truth steadfast to go.The time is long that Truth doth sitFeeble and weak, and suff’reth woe;Cherish him well, continue so;Let him not fro’ your heart astart;Then fears not the eye to shew the heart.
We That Were Friendsby James Elroy Flecker
We that were friends to-night have foundA sudden fear, a secret flame:I am on fire with that soft soundYou make, in uttering my name.
Forgive a young and boastful manWhom dreams delight and passions please,And love me as great women canWho have no children at their knees.
Under the Mistletoeby George Francis Shults
She stood beneath the mistletoeThat hung above the door,Quite conscious of the sprig above,Revered by maids of yore.A timid longing filled her heart;Her pulses throbbed with heat;He sprang to where the fair girl stood.“May I, just one, my sweet?”He asked his love, who tossed her head,“Just do it, if, you dare!” she said.
He sat before the fireplaceDown at the club that night.“She loves me not,” he hotly said,“Therefore she did but right!”She sat alone within her room,And with her finger-tipsShe held his picture to her heart,Then pressed it to her lips.“My loved one!” sobbed she, “if you caredYou surely would have, would have, dared.”
The Friendly Meetingby Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
In spreading mantle to my chin conceald,I trod the rocky path, so steep and grey,Then to the wintry plain I bent my wayUneasily, to flight my bosom steel’d.But sudden was the newborn day reveal’d:A maiden came, in heavenly bright array,Like the fair creatures of the poet’s layIn realms of song. My yearning heart was heal’d.Yet turn’d I thence, till she had onward pass’d,While closer still the folds to draw I tried,As though with heat self-kindled to grow warm;But follow’d her. She stood. The die was cast!No more within my mantle could I hide;I threw it off, she lay within mine arm.
Jenifer’s Loveby Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch
Small is my secret-let it pass-Small in your life the share I had,Who sat beside you in the class,Awed by the bright superior lad:Whom yet with hot and eager faceI prompted when he missed his place.
For you the call came swift and soon:But sometimes in your holidaysYou meet me trudging home at noonTo dinner through the dusty ways,And recognized, and with a nodPassed on, but never guessed-thank God!
Truly our ways were separate.I bent myself to hoe and drill,
Yea, with an honest man to mate,Fulfilling God Almighty’s will;And bore him children. But my prayersWere yours-and, only after, theirs.
While you-still loftier, more remote,You sprang from stair to stair of fame,And you’ve a riband on your coat,And you’ve a title to your name;But have you yet a star to shineAbove your bed, as I o’er mine?
Guess, Guessby Thomas Moore
I love a maid, a mystic maid,Whose form no eyes but mine can see;She comes in light, she comes in shade,And beautiful in both is she.Her shape in dreams I oft behold,And oft she whispers in my earSuch words as when to others told,Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;Then guess, guess, who she,The lady of my love, may be.
I find the lustre of her brow,Come o’er me in my darkest ways;And feel as if her voice, even now,Were echoing far off my lays.There is no scene of joy or woeBut she doth gild with influence bright;And shed o’er all so rich a glowAs makes even tears seem full of light:Then guess, guess, who she,The lady of my love, may be.
The Meetingby Sara Teasdale
I’m happy, I’m happy,I saw my love to-day.He came along the crowded street,By all the ladies gay,And oh, he smiled and spoke to meBefore he went his way.My throat was tight with happiness,I couldn’t say a word,My heart was beating fast, so fastI’m sure he must have heard;And when he passed, I trembled likeA little frightened bird.I wish I were the flower-girlWho waits beside the way,I’d give my flowers all to himAnd see him every day;I wish I were the flower-girlWho waits beside the way.
Roundelby Sara Teasdale
If he could know my songs are all for him,At silver dawn or in the evening glow,Would he not smile and think it but a whim,If he could know?
Or would his heart rejoice and overflow,As happy brooks that break their icy rimWhen April’s horns along the hillsides blow?
I may not speak till Eros’ torch is dim,The god is bitter and will have it so;And yet to-night our fate would seem less grimIf he could know.
The Lookby Sara Teasdale
Strephon kissed me in the spring,Robin in the fall,But Colin only looked at meAnd never kissed at all.
Strephon’s kiss was lost in jest,Robin’s lost in play,But the kiss in Colin’s eyesHaunts me night and day.
Hidden Loveby Sara Teasdale
I hid the love within my heart,And lit the laughter in my eyes,That when we meet he may not knowMy love that never dies.
But sometimes when he dreams at nightOf fragrant forests green and dim,It may be that my love crept outAnd brought the dream to him.
And sometimes when his heart is sickAnd suddenly grows well again,It may be that my love was thereTo free his life of pain.
Did You Never Knowby Sara Teasdale
Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me,That your love would never lessen and never go?You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,You were too young to know.
Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before itFar apart, far away in the gusty time of year,Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking,I know your secret, my dear, my dear.
Poems About Secret Love Crushes
Love’s Fancyby John Dryden
After the pangs of a desperate Lover,When a day and night I have sighed all in vain,Ah what a pleasure it is to discover,In her eyes pity who causes my pain!
When with unkindness our Love at a stand is,And both have punish’d our selves with the pain,Ah what a pleasure the touch of her hand is!Ah what a pleasure to touch it again!
When the denial comes fainter and fainter,And her eyes gives what her tongue does deny,Ah what a trembling I feel when I venture,Ah what a trembling does usher my Joy!
When, with a Sigh, she accords me the blessingAnd her eyes twinkle ’twixt pleasure and pain,Ah, what a Joy ’tis beyond all expressing!Ah, what a Joy to hear, Shall we again!
The Loverby Paul Tanaquil
You do not know the wonder I will pour on your name—It will burst like thunder with all heaven for a frame!I will raise it as a flame that the wind blows under,I will cast myself asunder—to my shame, to my blame!I will make a fame, a wonder of your name.
Loversby Horace Holley
Whate’er our joy compelled, men’s praise and blame fall hollow,A voice upon the winds that drown it as they blow:So fair a vision led, our thought was all to follow;So strong a passion urged, our will was all to go.
Love Untoldby Earl Marlatt
I cannot tellHow much I love you.A haunting legend frightens me.
The men who dared for HelenKnew sacredlyWhat I have learned and fear:The swan that sings its soulMust die, my dear,Must die.
I cannot tellHow much I love you.But—
There was a ManOnce, long ago,Who loved you so divinely,That he hung upon a crossAnd died—Died shamefully—for you.
My darling, would you understand?
I cannot tellHow much I love you, sweet-my-dear,Unless I die—Unless I die.
To One Unknownby Oscar Williams
I pass you by in the public street,O beautiful one, O wind of gladness!You are a call to me, a promise of mystery,Of delirium and aching madness.
I pass you by in the public street—You are a challenge, O entrancer!I am a boy, afraid, and I pass you by,Though my heart is breaking to answer!
I pass you by—but the memory of youIs as a breath from some strange world crying,As a scent of oranges in the nostrils of the sick,As music in the ears of the dying.
The Loverby Dora Sigerson Shorter
I go through wet spring woods alone,Through sweet green woods with heart of stone,My weary foot upon the grassFalls heavy as I pass.The cuckoo from the distance cries,The lark a pilgrim in the skies;But all the pleasant spring is drear.I want you, dear!
I pass the summer meadows by,The autumn poppies bloom and die;I speak alone so bitterlyFor no voice answers me.‘O lovers parting by the gate,O robin singing to your mate,Plead you well, for she will hear‘I love you, dear!’
I crouch alone, unsatisfied,Mourning by winter’s fireside.O Fate, what evil wind you blow.Must this be so?No southern breezes come to bless,So conscious of their emptinessMy lonely arms I spread in woe,I want you so.
My Heart, Like Hyacinthby Mark Turbyfill
Oh, Grief is not so near to tearsAs I!
Hurting me more than chord-pain—The thought of you,Quiet, alone,Lovely as a watered reed,Resting in the straightnessOf your cool white bed.
For I, storm-shattered and sick,Lie here flushed, hard-breathing.
Oh, Grief is not so near to tearsAs I!
Words About Loveby Mark Turbyfill
I cannot tell you what it is waits beyond love;Nor what it means, the still hour after.
I can think only of a wide field of poppies afireOn driven stems, dashed in the gale.
I cannot touch you now.I lie beside you chill. My heart has waned cold.A high white mountain has breathed upon my heart.
Let us gather out of our thoughts a poppy cloakTo draw about this strangeness.
I cannot tell you what it is waits beyond love;Nor what it means, the still hour after.
Poems About Illicit Love
The Sick Roseby William Blake
O Rose, thou art sick:The invisible worm,That flies in the nightIn the howling storm,
Has found out thy bedOf crimson joy;And his dark secret loveDoes thy life destroy.
This Is Not Loveby Elsa Gidlow
This is not love: we cannot call it love.Love would make me aware of infinite things,Drive me down the spirit’s vast abyssAnd through the narrow fastnesses of pain.This is not love. Yet it holds lovelinessBeyond mere pleasure. Peace and passion bothGrow from the kiss with which I paint drab hours.It is not love: love is for the godsAnd our more godlike moments. Yet when starsWithhold their splendor, why should we not lightCandles to warm with kindly mortal flamesThe all-enfolding, cold, immortal night?
A Well-Worn Storyby Dorothy Parker
In April, in April,My one love came along,And I ran the slope of my high hillTo follow a thread of song.
His eyes were hard as porphyryWith looking on cruel lands;His voice went slipping over meLike terrible silver hands.
Together we trod the secret laneAnd walked the muttering town.I wore my heart like a wet, red stainOn the breast of a velvet gown.
In April, in April,My love went whistling by,And I stumbled here to my high hillAlong the way of a lie.
Now what should I do in this placeBut sit and count the chimes,And splash cold water on my faceAnd spoil a page with rhymes.
The Grey Threadby Elsa Gidlow
My life is a grey thread,A thin grey stretched out thread,And when I trace its course, I moan:How dull! How dead!
But I have gay beads.A pale one to begin,A blue one for my painted dreams,And one for sin,Gold with coiled marks,Like a snake’s skin.
For love an odd beadWith a deep purple glow;A green bead for a secret thingThat few shall know;And yellow for my thoughtsThat melt like snow.
A red bead for my strength,And crimson for my hate;Silver for the songs I singWhen I am desolate;And white for my laughterThat mocks dull fate.
My life is a grey threadStretching through Time’s day;But I have slipped gay beads on itTo hide the grey.
Secret Loveby Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
He gloomily sat by the wall,As gaily she danced with them all.Her laughter’s light spellOn every one fell;His heartstrings were near unto rending,But this there was none comprehending.
She fled from the house, when at eveHe came there to take his last leave.To hide her she crept,She wept and she wept;Her life-hope was shattered past mending,But this there was none comprehending.
Long years dragged but heavily o’er,And then he came back there once more.
Her lot was the best,In peace and at rest;Her thought was of him at life’s ending,But this there was none comprehending.
I Cannot Live With Youby Emily Dickinson
I cannot live with You -It would be Life -And Life is over there -Behind the Shelf
The Sexton keeps the Key to -Putting upOur Life – His Porcelain -Like a Cup –
Discarded of the Housewife -Quaint – or Broke -A newer Sevres pleases -Old Ones crack –
I could not die – with You -For One must waitTo shut the Other’s Gaze down -You – could not –
And I – could I stand byAnd see You – freeze -Without my Right of Frost -Death’s privilege?
Nor could I rise – with You -Because Your FaceWould put out Jesus’ -That New Grace
Glow plain – and foreignOn my homesick Eye -Except that You than HeShone closer by –
They’d judge Us – How -For You – served Heaven – You know,Or sought to -I could not –
Because You saturated Sight -And I had no more EyesFor sordid excellenceAs Paradise
And were You lost, I would be -Though My NameRang loudestOn the Heavenly fame –
And were You – saved -And I – condemned to beWhere You were not -That self – were Hell to Me –
So We must meet apart -You there – I – here -With just the Door ajarThat Oceans are – and Prayer -And that White Sustenance -Despair –
Erosby Ralph Waldo Emerson
They put their finger on their lip,The Powers above:The seas their islands clip,The moons in ocean dip,They love, but name not love.
Wild Nights—Wild Nights!by Emily Dickinson
Wild Nights – Wild Nights!Were I with theeWild Nights should beOur luxury!
Futile – the winds -To a heart in port -Done with the compass -Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden -Ah, the sea!Might I moor – Tonight -In thee!
The Reconcilementby John Sheffield
Come, let us now resolve at lastTo live and love in quiet;We’ll tie the knot so very fastThat Time shall ne’er untie it.
The truest joys they seldom proveWho free from quarrels live:‘Tis the most tender part of loveEach other to forgive.
When least I seem’d concern’d, I tookNo pleasure nor no rest;And when I feign’d an angry look,Alas! I loved you best.
Own but the same to me—you’ll findHow blest will be our fate.O to be happy—to be kind—Sure never is too late!
To Manon, on His Fortune in Loving Herby Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
I did not choose thee, dearest. It was LoveThat made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blindAs a rude shepherd’s who to some lone groveHis offering brings and cares not at what shrineHe bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine;The rest was Love’s. He took me by the hand,And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine,And spoke the words I might not understand.I was unwise in all but the dear chanceWhich was my fortune, and the blind desireWhich led my foolish steps to Love’s abode,And youth’s sublime unreason’d prescienceWhich raised an altar and inscribed in fireIts dedication To the Unknown God.
The Road of Make-Believeby Ameen Rihani
I
She sits upon a rock along the streamThat heard the whisper of her first Desire,Washing the faded garment of her Dream,Which she had often carried to the Dyer—The Dream of her self-centred lyric fire.And in the flowing, scarlet wounds of Twilight,Expiring on Aurora’s drooping wingsBeneath the secret scimitar of Night,She dyes again her garment, while she singsOf new-born love, though to self-love she clings.
II
He seeks the path of glory in the noonOf self-intoxication, dreaming stillOf power,—wondering why the sun and moonAre not yoked to the chariot of his will.His soul, a clinging vine, his mind, an ill,He beats against the peaks of earth-bound dreams,Subsisting on the thistles of his heart,But ever seeking, in the fitful gleamsOf his own fire, self-admiration’s martTo mend his horn or whet his venomed dart.
III
They walk together in the golden vastOf vision-haunted, soul-alluring sands,Beholding the illusions of the pastAmong the ruins of deserted lands:—Together, although neither understandsThe groping purpose of the other; and yet,While in their hearts the gods of conflict nod,They gloze and smile, dissembling their regret:Love, on the Road of Make-Believe, they prod,He going to the dogs and she, to God.
Willie and Helenby Hew Ainslie
‘Wharefore sou’d ye talk o’ love,Unless it be to pain us?Wharefore sou’d ye talk o’ loveWhan ye say the sea maun twain us?’
‘It ‘s no because my love is light,Nor for your angry deddy;It ‘s a’ to buy ye pearlins bright,An’ to busk ye like a leddy.’
‘O Willy, I can caird an’ spin,Se ne’er can want for cleedin’;An’ gin I hae my Willy’s heart,I hae a’ the pearls I’m heedin’.
‘Will it be time to praise this cheekWhan years an’ tears has blench’d it?Will it be time to talk o’ loveWhan cauld an’ care has quench’d it?’
He’s laid ae han’ about her waist—The ither ‘s held to heaven;An’ his luik was like the luik o’ manWha’s heart in twa is riven.
Phillida and Coridonby Nicholas Breton
In the merry month of May,In a morn by break of day,Forth I walk’d by the wood-sideWhen as May was in his pride:There I spièd all alonePhillida and Coridon.Much ado there was, God wot!He would love and she would not.She said, Never man was true;He said, None was false to you.He said, He had loved her long;She said, Love should have no wrong.Coridon would kiss her then;She said, Maids must kiss no menTill they did for good and all;Then she made the shepherd callAll the heavens to witness truthNever loved a truer youth.Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, and faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds useWhen they will not Love abuse,Love, which had been long deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded;And Phillida, with garlands gay,Was made the Lady of the May.
Sonnet 133by William Shakespeare
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groanFor that deep wound it gives my friend and me!Is’t not enough to torture me alone,But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be?Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,And my next self thou harder hast engross’d:Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross’d:Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climb’St the Skiesby Sir Philip Sidney
With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes,How silently, and with how meane a face,What may it be, that even in heavenly place,That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes?Sure if that long with love acquainted eyesCan judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case,I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace.To mee that feele the like, my state discries.
Porphyria’s Loverby Robert Browning
The rain set early in to-night,The sullen wind was soon awake,It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake:I listen’d with heart fit to break.When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneel’d and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soil’d gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd call’d me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,Murmuring how she loved me—sheToo weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.Be sure I look’d up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipp’d me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaugh’d the blue eyes without a stain.And I untighten’d next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlush’d bright beneath my burning kiss:I propp’d her head up as before,Only, this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still:The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,That all it scorn’d at once is fled,And I, its love, am gain’d instead!Porphyria’s love: she guess’d not howHer darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,And all night long we have not stirr’d,And yet God has not said a word!
Sonnet 03by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sonnets From the Portuguese
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!Unlike our uses and our destinies.Our ministering two angels look surpriseOn one another, as they strike athwartTheir wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, artA guest for queens to social pageantries,With gages from a hundred brighter eyesThan tears even can make mine, to play thy partOf chief musician. What hast thou to doWith looking from the lattice-lights at me—A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing throughThe dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?The chrism is on thine head—on mine the dew—And Death must dig the level where these agree.
The Outlaw of Loch Leneby Jeremiah Joseph Callanan
O many a day have I made good ale in the glen,That came not of stream or malt, like the brewing of men:My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above;And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my Love.
Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,That I was not near from terror my angel to shield!She stretch’d forth her arms; her mantle she flung to the wind,And swam o’er Loch Lene, her outlaw’d lover to find.
O would that a freezing sleet-wing’d tempest did sweep,And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;I’d ask not a ship, or a bark, or a pinnace, to save—With her hand round my waist, I’d fear not the wind or the wave.
‘Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides:I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes among,The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
To Coeliaby Charles Cotton
When, Coelia, must my old day set,And my young morning riseIn beams of joy so bright as yetNe’er bless’d a lover’s eyes?My state is more advanced than whenI first attempted thee:I sued to be a servant then,But now to be made free.
I’ve served my time faithful and true,Expecting to be placedIn happy freedom, as my due,To all the joys thou hast:Ill husbandry in love is suchA scandal to love’s power,We ought not to misspend so muchAs one poor short-lived hour.
Yet think not, sweet! I’m weary grown,That I pretend such haste;Since none to surfeit e’er was knownBefore he had a taste:My infant love could humbly waitWhen, young, it scarce knew howTo plead; but grown to man’s estate,He is impatient now.
Love and Thoughtby Ralph Waldo Emerson
Two well-assorted travellers useThe highway, Eros and the Muse.From the twins is nothing hidden,To the pair is nought forbidden;Hand in hand the comrades goEvery nook of Nature through:Each for other they were born,Each can other best adorn;They know one only mortal griefPast all balsam or relief;When, by false companions crossed,The pilgrims have each other lost.
To ——by Percy Bysshe Shelley
One word is too often profanedFor me to profane it;One feeling too falsely disdain’dFor thee to disdain it;One hope is too like despairFor prudence to smother;And pity from thee more dearThan that from another.
I can give not what men call love:But wilt thou accept notThe worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the heavens reject not,The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afarFrom the sphere of our sorrow?
Her Secretby Thomas Hardy
That love’s dull smart distressed my heartHe shrewdly learnt to see,But that I was in love with a dead manNever suspected he.
He searched for the trace of a pictured face,He watched each missive come,And a note that seemed like a love-lineMade him look frozen and glum.
He dogged my feet to the city street,He followed me to the sea,But not to the neighbouring churchyardDid he dream of following me.
Galahad in the Castle of the Maidensby Sara Teasdale
(To the maiden with the hidden face in Abbey’s painting)
The other maidens raised their eyes to himWho stumbled in before them when the fightHad left him victor, with a victor’s right.I think his eyes with quick hot tears grew dim;He scarcely saw her swaying white and slim,And trembling slightly, dreaming of his might,Nor knew he touched her hand, as strangely lightAs a wan wraith’s beside a river’s rim.The other maidens raised their eyes to seeAnd only she has hid her face away,And yet I ween she loved him more than they,And very fairly fashioned was her face.Yet for Love’s shame and sweet humility,She dared not meet him with their queen-like grace.
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