Roses are red, violets are blue. Like love poems? Here a few.

love lineBefore romance novels there were love poems. Sometimes sweet, sometimes tender, sometimes raunchy but always intimate and direct. Most love poems are from the author to a specific lover, a genuine communication that wasn’t necessarily intended for commercial  consumption.  That authentic, sincere emotional communication can often capture the essence of love in far fewer lines than a romance novel. And it does so in such a way that it lingers on the mind and tongue in a way that a book often doesn’t.Here are some of the AAR staff’s favorite poems about love:

JennaAntonio by Laura Elizabeth Richards I remember this poem from when I was a student in elementary school, and it’s perhaps the first one I ever memorized completely. In fact, I think I can remember that some students dressed up and acted it out, which perhaps is another reason it stayed with me – I can very much visualize imagery to go along with it. I also love how Richards alters words in such a way as to make the rhyme work, such as “polo-ponio” and “ice cream conio”. It’s very simplistic in its lymerick form, but that gives it a rolling cadence that is fun to read out loud.

Antonio

 

Antonio, Antonio

Was tired of living alonio.

He thought he would woo

Miss Lissamy Lu,

Miss Lissamy Lucy Molonio.

 

Antonio, Antonio,

Rode off on his polo-ponio.

He found the fair maid

In a bowery shade,

A-sitting and knitting alonio.

 

Antonio, Antonio,

Said, “If you will be my ownio,

I’ll love you true,

And I’ll buy for you

An icery creamery conio!”

 

“Oh, Nonio, Antonio!

You’re far too bleak and bonio!

And all that I wish,

You singular fish,

Is that you will quickly begonio.”

 

Antonio, Antonio,

He uttered a dismal moanio;

Then he ran off and hid

(Or I’m told that he did)

In the Antecatarctical Zonio.

 

Dabney:  There are so many. I can’t pick just one. I grew up reading poetry and many of the old classics still thrill me. The rhythm of Noyes’  The Highwayman, the power of Yates’ When You Are Old, the whimsy of Lear’s The Owl and the Pussycat are all forever in my heart. In my twenties, I fell hard for modern poetry where love is usually portrayed as complicated and tricky. Of that set, XVII (I do not love you…) by Pablo Neruda might be my favorite.

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.

 

Lee: One of my favorites is When You Are Old  by W. B. Yeats. It is an oldie but goodie and so romantic and sad and melancholy but hits you in the heart.

When You Are Old

 

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

 

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

 

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

 

Pat: A Red, Red Rose Robbie Burns Well, it may be a little pedestrian, but I love the joy and happiness of it as if love is something to dance and shout about, not something to dwell in melancholy about. The words, the spelling, the sentiment are all wonderful!

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 play’d in tune.

 

As fair art thou, my bonie 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;

And 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, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile.

 

Mary: How do I Love Thee Elizabeth Barrett Browning  It just makes you believe in that all encompassing and unselfish love.  Your breath hitches a little when you recite it out loud.  It is simple but profound

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 candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with a 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.

 

Melanie: If I had to pick a favorite, I have to go with Shakespeare – specifically Sonnet 130. I particularly like this one (though 116 is a close second) because he flat out states that his mistress isn’t the perfect paragon of beauty found in other poems. He’s downright insulting at times. But in the end, he finds her rare and lovely as she is. No one is perfect, and I remember the moment in high school when I read this poem, and realized I didn’t need to be a Disney Princess to be lovely.

Sonnet 130

 

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 damasked, 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.

 

Blythe: Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe and A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne

Annabel Lee

 

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 wingèd 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 kinsmen 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 her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

 

Maggie: This isn’t my favorite love poem (that would be Sonnet 130 by Shakespeare) but I wouldn’t feel right not including a poet known to most historical romance readers – Lord Byron (George Gordon).  This is one of his most famous poems and a personal favorite.

She Walks in Beauty

 

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!

 

So these are a few of our favorites.  Do you have a love poem that really speaks to you? Which one? What makes it stand out from the crowd for you?

Maggie AAR

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18 Responses to “Roses are red, violets are blue. Like love poems? Here a few.”

  1. Leigh says:

    Interesting seeing you guys favorites. I don’t think that I have one.

  2. Paola says:

    A poem by e.e. cummings

    i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
    my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
    i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
    by only me is your doing, my darling)

    i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
    no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
    and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
    and whatever a sun will always sing is you

    here is the deepest secret nobody knows
    (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
    and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
    higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
    and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

    i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

  3. LeeB. says:

    Poetry takes a very special talent and seeing these wonderful poems really showcases that art.

  4. Mary Beth says:

    Oranges
    By: Gary Soto

    The first time I walked
    With a girl, I was twelve,
    Cold, and weighted down
    With two oranges in my jacket.
    December. Frost cracking
    Beneath my steps, my breath
    Before me, then gone,
    As I walked toward
    Her house, the one whose
    Porch light burned yellow
    Night and day, in any weather.
    A dog barked at me, until
    She came out pulling
    At her gloves, face bright
    With rouge. I smiled,
    Touched her shoulder, and led
    Her down the street, across
    A used car lot and a line
    Of newly planted trees,
    Until we were breathing
    Before a drugstore. We
    Entered, the tiny bell
    Bringing a saleslady
    Down a narrow aisle of goods.
    I turned to the candies
    Tiered like bleachers,
    And asked what she wanted -
    Light in her eyes, a smile
    Starting at the corners
    Of her mouth. I fingered
    A nickle in my pocket,
    And when she lifted a chocolate
    That cost a dime,
    I didn’t say anything.
    I took the nickle from
    My pocket, then an orange,
    And set them quietly on
    The counter. When I looked up,
    The lady’s eyes met mine,
    And held them, knowing
    Very well what it was all
    About.

    Outside,
    A few cars hissing past,
    Fog hanging like old
    Coats between the trees.
    I took my girl’s hand
    In mine for two blocks,
    Then released it to let
    Her unwrap the chocolate.
    I peeled my orange
    That was so bright against
    The gray of December
    That, from some distance,
    Someone might have thought
    I was making a fire in my hands.

    I have always loved this poem because I think that it is a pitch perfect portrayal of young love.

    • maggie b. says:

      That is a great poem about young love. I was so nervous when he got to the counter – it was so sweet that it worked out.

      • Mary Beth says:

        @maggie b. – I was a teacher for many years and when we discussed this poem the scene at the counter was always the most remarked upon – ‘my heart sank’, ‘I can’t believe the lady let him have the chocolate bar’ and ‘oh no, he doesn’t have enough money’. They related strongly to the potential for humiliation in that moment.

  5. Maria D. says:

    I don’t really have a favorite love poem – though I have to admit that I love
    reading a good one. I do love three of the poems highlighted by you guys though: She Walks in Beauty, Annabelle Lee and How Do I Love Thee…they are classics for a reason!

  6. RosieH says:

    My favourite love poem is by Australian poet, Judith Wright and I’m not even sure if it fully qualifies as a love poem. It’s called “Woman to Man” and as it is still in copyright, I can’t print it out, but do read it if ever you have the opportunity. It’s lovely.

  7. JHolland says:

    The Vinegar Man
    by Ruth Comfort Mitchell

    The crazy old Vinegar Man is dead! He never had missed a day before!
    Somebody went to his tumble-down shed by the Haunted House and forced the door.

    There in the litter of his pungent pans,
    the murky mess of his mixing place…
    Deep, sticky spiders and empty cans
    with the same old frown on his sour old face.

    Vinegar-Vinegar-Vinegar-Man!
    Face-us-and-chase-us-and-catch-us-if-you-can!

    Pepper for a tongue! Pickle for a nose!
    Stick a pin in him and vinegar flows!

    Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-us-if-you-can!
    Ketchup-and-chow-chow-and-Vinegar-Man!

    Nothing but recipes and worthless junk;
    greasy old records of paid and due…
    But down in the depths of a battered trunk,
    a queer, quaint Valentine, torn in two.

    Red hearts, and arrows, and silver lace,
    and a prim, dim, ladylike script that said:
    “With dearest love, from Ellen to Ned!”

    Steal-us-and-peel-us-and-drown-us-in-brine!
    He pickles his heart in a valentine!
    Vinegar for blood! Pepper for his tongue!
    Stick a pin in him and….
    once he was young?

    Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-us-if-you-can!
    “With dearest love”… to the Vinegar Man?

    Dingy little books of profit and loss
    (died about Saturday, so they say),
    And a queer, quaint valentine torn across . . .

    Torn, but it never was thrown away!
    “With dearest love from Ellen to Ned”

    “Old Pepper Tongue! Pickles his heart in brine!”
    The Vinegar Man is a long time dead….

    He died when he tore his valentine.

  8. Bona says:

    I do have a favourite love poem. It was written by Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas, one of our greatest Baroque poets: ‘Amor constante más allá de la muerte’ this is ‘Constant Love Beyond Death’.
    I have found some translations to English but they don’t sound as well as in Spanish.
    It’s a sonnet, it starts saying ‘Closed, my eyes could be, by the last
    shadow that the bright day may bring,’ and in the end, it gives the idea that your veins, your bones, once you are dead,
    ‘will be ashes, but they will have sense
    will be dust, but dust in love’
    I like this poem for three reasons. First, the high Literary quality of it; second, the idea that love is what gives sense to one’s life; and third, because it shows that you love with your body, not only with your mind or soul so it sounds very sensual.

  9. Eliza says:

    Lines already quoted stay with me, always:

    How many loved your moments of glad grace,

    And loved your beauty with love false or true,

    But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

    And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

  10. Paola says:

    There’s a very touching poem of Eugenio Montale, an Italian poet that also won the Nobel prize.
    It’s for his dead wife. If there’s someone who can read Italian, it’s
    Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno un milione di scale

    Here’s a translation and however good, it’s not the real thing, that’s the problem with translation in poetry.

    Your arm in mine, I’ve descended a million stairs at least.
    And now that you’re not here, a void yawns at every step.
    Even so our long journey was brief.
    I’m still en route, with no further need
    of reservations, connections, ruses,
    the constant contempt of those who think reality
    is what one sees.
    I’ve descended millions of stairs giving you my arm,
    not of course because four eyes see better.
    I went downstairs with you because I knew
    the only real eyes, however darkened,
    belonged to you.

    Eugenio Montale, Satura 1962-1970,
    translated by William Arrowsmith

    • Mary Beth says:

      @Paola – This lovely, lovely poem makes me wish that I knew Italian. The translation is so poignant that I can imagine the poem in its’ original language is a stunner!

    • Bona says:

      Fortunately, being a Spaniard, I can understand written Italian and I do agree: Montale’s poem is simply wonderful.
      There’s a problem with poetry, that you don’t find with other genres: translations nearly ruin the original. It gives you an idea of what’s the poem about but it is not the poem itself.
      Shakespeare does not sound the same when you translate him.
      Thank you very much, Paola, for such a wonderful poem.