PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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 every day'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.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou are more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade

Which in eternal lines to time thou grow’st

So long as men can breathe and eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

T’would serve to show your kindness and your grace,

Yet using such a tired old cliché

Would make your love seem drab and commonplace.

Atop a balcony, I could cry out

Your name, and hope that you would hear my call.

But that is now quite overused, no doubt,

And would not make our love unique at all.

I could write down in verse how sweet you are,

How loving, gentle, mild and how admired.

The rhyme would outlast sun and moon and star,

But proof so tangible is not required.

Though many seek to copy Shakespeare’s way,

Their common love will quite soon fade away.

My Rubik’s Cube likes finished and complete,

It lies upon my desk and looks at me.

In its sight, I am with joy replete

Because the sides are ordered perfectly.

But then, with less than is my normal wit,

I turn the dials and mix the colours in.

Undoing is not possible, I sit

And weep with tears of rage at my great sin.

At random spinning sides, to no avail,

Confusion stays, though all the faces change;

I calm myself, I think ‘til face is pale,

And soon I am not from my cube estranged.

A problem brought about by lack of wit

Is quickly solved by fast regaining it.

My mistress is the Queen of all the land;

I bear her likeness with me every day.

It brings me joy to hold her in my hand,

To stroke her cold, hard face whene’re I may.

I love her golden hair and silver crown,

And her complacent smile makes me rejoice.

Her face is cast, so never does it frown,

Metallic clinking is her lovely voice.

But then she also has a bestial side

And changes into creatures of the wood,

And yet I love her far too well to chide:

She holds my love more than a woman could.

So, though she sleeps in vaults, and not my bed,

Sweet dreams of her forever fill my head.

‘Twas late last night blind Cupid pierced my heart,

Ere I gazed at one fairer than the rest,

And now in spite of holes from th’archer’s darts

My love for her doth swell and fill my breast.

Her eyes, like starts, do sparkle in her head,

Her face, so young, so gentle, mild and meek,

Her gaze upon me makes my face go red.

I would that I could touch her lovely cheek!

My love for other girls doth flee away,

As t’were a cold and bitter winter, chased

From earth at brake of sunny morn, for aye

Is melted by my newfound love’s warm face.

Though once I was in midst of dark, cold night,

With love, like sunshine warm, my life is bright.

I sit at meals, but ne’er a bite do taste:

Too weak am I with love to eat my food.

Though some have said the love is sweet and good,

Afflicted by’t, I rise and leave my place.

I lie abed, though all my sleep is chased

By cruel love, whose heart is stone and wood.

If remedy had I, cure love I would

But ‘stead I lie awake with pale, wan face.

With hail of poisoned arrows struck am I,

The archer’s darts, like tears, upon me rain.

They pierce my heart, and venom fills my veins,

My throat is sore because of constant cries.

Now I pass through the low-lintel'd threshold

Of love, and lie, not sleeping, but so cold.

How shall I consecrate my love for you?

In rhyming verse, or song, or story sweet?

‘Tis said that verse doth run the ages through,

And yet methinks verse, too, may get sore feet.

Ev’n written with dark ink on parchment strong,

Cruel Time will eat away the fairest rhyme.

The blackest ink doth fade, for years are long,

And all to dust doth crumble, given Time.

An all-consuming fire could quickly burn

The sweetest poem written by man’s hand.

A precious song the memory doth spurn

When Time’s cold grip doth steal the life from man.

‘Tis true that verse can outlast man’s few days,

But touched with Time’s cold hand, e’en verse decays.

When was the last time a kiss meant something?

When was the last time a kiss was for love?

Would you hand your love to me on a ring?

Or write a sonnet sent by a white dove?



Your loving embrace means the world to me.

To me a sunny day is not so bright

without you there to look at me and see

in my eyes desire's sharp burning light.



I gaze down blushing as your gaze meets mine.

You search my soul and find naught but passion.

Your hand lifts my chin and our fingers twine

together; we lean in with compassion.



       To me you give the sweetest ever kiss.

       And if you left, it is you I'd miss.