woman in love

Poems are an inspiration, and while it may be a figment of the writer’s imagination; it holds so much truth and so many emotions.

These love poems below would definitely melt your heart this weekend.



Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade,

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid

Silent and chaste she steals along,

Far from the world’s gay busy throng:

With gentle yet prevailing force,

Intent upon her destined course;

Graceful and useful all she does,

Blessing and blest where’er she goes;

Pure-bosom’d as that watery glass,

And Heaven reflected in her face.

— William Cowper



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  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)

— E.E Cummings



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 mellow’d to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair’d 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!

– Lord Byron



I ne’er was struck before that hour

With love so sudden and so sweet.

Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower

And stole my heart away complete.

My face turned pale, a deadly pale.

My legs refused to walk away,

And when she looked what could I ail

My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face

And took my eyesight quite away.

The trees and bushes round the place

Seemed midnight at noonday.

I could not see a single thing,

Words from my eyes did start.

They spoke as chords do from the string,

And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter’s choice

Is love’s bed always snow

She seemed to hear my silent voice

Not love appeals to know.

I never saw so sweet a face

As that I stood before.

My heart has left its dwelling place

And can return no more.

— John Claire



I loved you first: but afterwards your love

Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song

As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.

Which owes the other most? my love was long,

And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;

I loved and guessed at you, you construed me

And loved me for what might or might not be –

Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.

For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’

With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,

For one is both and both are one in love:

Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’

Both have the strength and both the length thereof,

Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

— Christina Rossetti



Accept, dear girl, this little token,

And if between the lines you seek,

You’ll find the love I’ve often spoken

The love my dying lips shall speak.

Our little ones are making merry

O’er am’rous ditties rhymed in jest,

But in these words (though awkward very)

The genuine article’s expressed.

You are as fair and sweet and tender,

Dear brown-eyed little sweetheart mine,

As when, a callow youth and slender,

I asked to be your Valentine.

What though these years of ours be fleeting?

What though the years of youth be flown?

I’ll mock old Tempus with repeating,

“I love my love and her alone!”

And when I fall before his reaping,

And when my stuttering speech is dumb,

Think not my love is dead or sleeping,

But that it waits for you to come.

So take, dear love, this little token,

And if there speaks in any line

The sentiment I’d fain have spoken,

Say, will you kiss your Valentine?

— Eugene Field