My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask’d, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak,– yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go,– My mistress when she walks treads on the ground; And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
William Shakespeare My mistressâ€™ eyes are nothing like the sun
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 mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired 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. 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!
George Gordon, Lord Byron She walks in beauty, like the night
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed, By every word and smile deceived. Another man would hope no more; Nor hope I what I hoped before: But let not this last wish be vain; Deceive, deceive me once again!
Walter Savage Landor You smiled, you spoke, and I believed
So, we’ll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we’ll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.
George Gordon, Lord Byron So, weâ€™ll go no more a-roving
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
William Butler Yeats Down by the Salley gardens
Like the touch of rain she was On a man’s flesh and hair and eyes When the joy of walking thus Has taken him by surprise: With the love of the storm he burns, He sings, he laughs, well I know how, But forgets when he returns As I shall not forget her “Go now.” Those two words shut a door Between me and the blessed rain That was never shut before And will not open again.
Edward Thomas Like the touch of rain
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 candle-light. 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 Barrett Browning How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
If grief for grief can touch thee, If answering woe for woe, If any truth can melt thee, Come to me now! I cannot be more lonely, More drear I cannot be! My worn heart beats so wildly â€˜Twill break for thee. And when the world despises, When Heaven repels my prayer, Will not mine angel comfort? Mine idol hear? Yes, by the tears Iâ€™ve poured thee, By all my hours of pain, O I shall surely win thee, Beloved, again!
Emily Bronte If grief for grief can touch thee
Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again. For so the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day. Come, as thou cam’st a thousand times, A messenger from radiant climes, And smile on thy new world, and be As kind to others as to me. Or, as thou never cam’st in sooth, Come now, and let me dream it truth, And part my hair, and kiss my brow, And say– My love! why sufferest thou? Come to me in my dreams, and then By day I shall be well again. For so the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day.
Matthew Arnold Longing
Punctuation marks are the interpretors of human emotions. They are crucial to the written language: they make us pause, change the tone of voice, and, vitally, they set the mood. Poetry is one the most expressive forms of human communication. And Love is the most diverse feeling a human can ever experience. This publication includes nine individual pages intended to make the user appreciate punctuation marks as decoration of the written language. Subject matter is love poems, which were divided into three categories: admiration (1), melancholy (2) and surrender (3).