Love Poems

Los dos siguientes valores, son la palabra "amor" y la palabra "love poems" con una notable diferencia de valores presenta también característicos picos cuando se acerca la fecha indicad. Así que ya saben, cuando el día señalado el novio les presente un hermoso "poema de amor", ya sabrán de dónde lo habrá sacado.

Tonight is very long,
Longer than last night,
Longer than ever,
And may be longer than tomorrow.

Tonight i leave the place that I'll remember for my entire life,
Tonight I've become real man because the sky is dark,
Darken than last night,
Darken than ever,
The stars more further,
Further than last night..

Tonight, I'll create a future
Future for tomorrow night,
But i can't,
I lost,
I cry,
And I ponder,

Yes, i ponder,
And there's the answer,
That I've already know,
I've already learned,
I've already answered.

The red world,
The red sky,
The red blood,
The red life,
It's all about my memories.

I never lie
Because i don't want you to cry.

Stopped his legs, blink his eyes
someone feeling so shy
so beautiful, so pretty
for her, he could die.

Seeing him, bowed her head
intervally giving a peep
nothing, so beautiful, he ever saw
mind vacant, heart went deep.

Party running on full swing
standing young, bee with no wing
what perfect thing he find
with his inward sight unblind.

All the naughty, looking was he
no thought, who could be?
just the beauty and its charm
in the wedding party farm.

Looked his friend, on his face
nothing for him on to trace
made him sit on his chair
ask him, what he dare?

No reply, young could give
"anything?" asked again to give
shaked his head, eyes flattered
now reply, how he clattered.

Smiled the lass, smiled the heaven
accepted everything, all given
smiled the gentle, all the way
got the universe, on that day.

All his whole, full in delight
for her lovely, just a sight
hand is ever at his hips
bowed down lass, eyes at hips.

Moved her lips full of love
replied the young with lips curve
she had stand, he too had
her head moved and made him mad.

All the pleasures he could get
love in her, he could set
forwarded her legs towards the wise
almighty god in the skies.

Near to him is his crown
moved his head up and down
sang the birds and bees dance
all the wonders on his glance.

Eyes all wondered what he see
flattered hand, that was she
delighted heart met the throne
"I Love You" in her tone.

Moved his hand, happy glowing fire
a pull to him, came for retire
"Excuse me", harsh and loud
got her hand among the crowd.

Shook his head all in amaze
with his hungry eyes he gaze
kisses and clungings are on run
paled his face losing fun.

Went his love with showy plays
remained he loving all the days
most delighting since he born
left him the blushes and the mourn.

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Rilke knew the meaning of the hidden heart. I first came across the German poet while i worked at Bookworm in Lampeter, 2003. I had a lot of time to fumble through the titles. “Book of Hours: Love Poems to God”, jumped out to me immediately, although it was a good three months later before i opened her. I guess i was little skittish, like a new lover i was somewhat scared of the intensity i felt over a title.

Another well-worn link making the rounds today was this article about Thomas Hardy’s love poems to Emma. It’s an emotional story, filled with depth of feeling and love, regret and remorse.

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

One year has passed
I haven't talked with you since then
You're already at peace with the world
and here I am still struggling for life.

I am missing you
The voice, the care, the love
Where else could I find them
but only in you.

Memories about you are all I have
They make me cry and yearn for you
all the time of my waking life
Even in sleep I dreamed about you.

Sometimes I wish that I should not have been
what I was when we were still together
For I want that our love is forever
It could have been, that's all I could sigh for

Sometimes I wish that you could feel
The beatings of my heart even before I let you you know
You could hear what I think even if you don't hear me
You could dry the tears in my eyes even though you don't see me.

Life's indeed too short
for us to love eternally
But I do believe in forever
That was what you told me...

FOREVER, YOU and ME.

A day above the ordinary was when love has stumbled upon my
path and kept me afloat. I asked myself, “are you the one?”
As I gazed into your eyes, I found my home.
Time has stripped off the circumstances
of mastering your scent
and the ways you reflect,
the times you praise your god
and the songs you love,
the stories you make up
and the aspirations you desire,
-- what moves you
-- what inspires you.
You were drawn from my side so suddenly, that I wished to stay 
a bit longer in the past…
so I could hear you
smell you
touch you
feel you
-- once again.
Long have I waited for your return, but you never came. The sweet 
breeze of spring has been overshadowed by the melancholic 
songs of tomorrow. Now, all I have are words to create your 
likeness. Everything else slowly vanishes from my memories.
The rain and the sunshine…
the smell of the morning dew…
and the feeling of melting in your embrace.
Set me free. Let me face my new home.
A place where I am ought to be.

Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love."
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell
  a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste
   the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is
   for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest
   branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to
   the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become
   sacred bread for God's sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets
   of your heart, 
and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's
   pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out
   of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your
   laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I
   am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you
   worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your
   desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the
   night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day
   of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a
   song of praise upon your lips.

"Hide, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clear;
Esther, lay thou thy meekness all adown;
Hide, Jonathan, all thy friendly mannere,
Penelope, and Marcia Catoun,
Make of your wifehood no comparisoun;
Hide ye your beauties, Isoude and Helene;
My lady comes, that all this may distain.

"Thy faire body let it not appear,
Lavine; and thou, Lucrece of Rome town;
And Polyxene, that boughte love so dear,
And Cleopatra, with all thy passioun,
Hide ye your truth of love, and your renown;
And thou, Thisbe, that hadst of love such pain
My lady comes, that all this may distain.

"Hero, Dido, Laodamia, y-fere,
And Phyllis, hanging for Demophoon,
And Canace, espied by thy cheer,
Hypsipyle, betrayed by Jasoun,
Make of your truthe neither boast nor soun';
Nor Hypermnestr' nor Ariadne, ye twain;
My lady comes, that all this may distain." 

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence;
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands 

Dave Lee calls the following poem one of the greatest love poems written in the English language. I am not as well read as he, but I think it's pretty damned powerful. I will let you decide for yourself.

This cup has touched
Zenophila's teasing mouth, sweet snare of love.
Oh happiness, if she
Would press her lips to my lips, and in one
Deep draught drink down my soul!

Glory be to God for dappled things--
  For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; 
    For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; 
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings; 
  Landscape plotted and pieced -- fold, fallow, and plough; 
    And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. 

All things counter, original, spare, strange; 
  Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) 
    With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; 
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: 
           Praise Him.

Now that you have come,
dancing into my life
a guest in a closed room,
to welcome you, love longed for so long,
I lack the words, the voice,
and I am happy just in silence by your side.

The chirping that deafens the woods at dawn,
stills when the sun leaps to the horizon.

But my unrest sought you, when as a boy,
on summer nights I came stifled to the window:
for I didn't know, and it worried my heart.
And yours are all the words that came,
like water brimming over, unbidden to my lips,
the desert hours, when childishly
my adult lips rose, alone, longing for a kiss...

Thou gazest on the stars, my star!
Ah! would that I might be
Myself those skies with myriad eyes,
That I might gaze on thee.

In my body you search the mountain
for the sun buried in its forest.
In your body I search for the boat
adrift in the middle of the night.

We kissed at the barrier, and passing through
She left me, and moment by moment got
Smaller and smaller, until to my view
She was but a spot;

A wee white spot of muslin fluff
That doun the diminishing platform bore
Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough
To the carriage door.

Under the lamplight's fitful glowers,
Behind dark groups from far and near,
Whose interests were apart from ours,
She would disappear,

Then show again, till ceased to see
That flexible from, that nebulous white;
And she who was more then my life to me
Had vanished quite.

We have penned new plans since that fair fond day,
And in season she will appear again -
Perhaps in the same soft white array -
But never as then!

-'And why, young man, must eternally fly
A joy you'll repeat, if you love her well?'
- O friend, nought happens twice thus; why,
I cannot tell!

What slender youth, besprinkled with perfume,
Courts you on roses in some grotto's shade?
Fair Pyrrha, say, for whom
Your yellow hair you braid,

So trim, so simple! Ah! how oft shall he
Lament that faith can fail, that gods can change,
Viewing the rough black sea
With eyes to tempests strange,

Who now is basking in your golden smile,
And dreams of you still fancy-free, still kind,
Poor fool, nor knows the guile
Of the deceitful wind!

Woe to the eyes you dazzle without cloud
Untried! For me, they show in yonder fane
My dripping garments, vow'd
To Him who curbs the main.

Shakespeare may have addressed this sonnet to a young man, but it could also describe my feelings for my wife. It is one of the most serene love poems ever written and what could be a better celebration of marriage than a poem that declares undying love and has stood the test of time? No, it is not our marriage anniversary or any special occasion, but I just borrowed a copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets and was browsing through Flickr when I was overcome by this desire to transcribe my favourite sonnet. And this picture of roses seemed just the thing to go with it. I love roses. And, to quote Burns,

Awake, my fair, my love, awake,
So that I may gaze upon you!
And if one is eager to kiss your lips,
In your dreams this do you see,
Lo, then I myself of your dream
The interpreter will be.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.

Love poems, suicide notes, lamentations of the body and the spirit…she was one of the first confessional poets, and even if my pen has run dry, she keeps me company.

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.

If questioning would make us wise
No eyes would ever gaze in eyes;
If all our tale were told in speech
No mouths would wander each to each.

Were spirits free from mortal mesh
And love not bound in hearts of flesh
No aching breasts would yearn to meet
And find their ecstasy complete.

For who is there that lives and knows
The secret powers by which he grows?
Were knowledge all, what were our need
To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?

Then seek not, sweet, the "If" and "Why"
I love you now until I die.
For I must love because I live
And life in me is what you give.

It means
no madcap delight will intrude
into the calm flow of my working hours
no ecstatic errors perple
my literary pretensions.

It means
there will be time enough for thought
undistracted by brown peril of eye
and measured litany of routine deeds
undone by the ghost of a scent.

It means
my neglect of the Sonnets will cease
and Homer come into battle once more.
I might even find turgid old Tennyson
less of a dead loss now.

It means
there will be whole days to spare
for things important to a man -
like learning to live without a woman
without altogether losing one's mind.

It means
there is no one now to read my latest poem
with veiled unhurried eyes
putting my nerves on the feline rack
in silence sheer she-devil hell for me.

It means
there is no silly woman to tell me
'Take it easy - lie's long anyway -
don't drink too much - get plenty of sleep -' and other tremendous cliches.

It means
I am less interrupted now with love.

I used to love to write. I would write silly poems, love poems, break up letters for friends, what ever the occasion called for. I haven’t written a poem in over 9 months now and I have no inclination to even think about writing. I realllly wanted to write a book and I’ve started about 3 but I don’t want to even finish them. I’ve blown off writing my final assignment for my class for the last 3 weeks and now it’s due on Thursday, I haven’t even watched all of the movies. Nor do I even care if I pass the class. I just want it to be over with.

My blog will be dedicated to love poems this week not only but because ‘love is in need of love today’, as Stevie Wonder sings.

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,
  With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
When she saw him she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,
  And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.
Oh! What shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now,
  Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again.
'Twas the pride of my dairy, Oh, Barney McCleary,
  You're sent as a plague on the girls of Coleraine.

He sat down beside her and gently did chide her,
  That such a misfortune should give her such pain.
A kiss then he gave her, and before he did leave her,
  She vowed for such pleasure, she'd break it again. 
'Twas haymaking season, I can't tell the reason,
  Misfortune will never come single 'tis plain,
For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,
  The divil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady's
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze—or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
—As if that answered
anything. Ah, yes. Below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore—
Which shore?—
the sand clings to my lips—
Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.

My grumbling wife -
if only she were here!
This moon tonight...

We were very tired, we were very merry--
We had gone back and forth all night upon the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable--
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on the hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry--
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and the pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

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.

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling,
Where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,
At grey moonrise.
 
Love, hear thou
How soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,
Ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
Then as now.
 
Dark to our hearts. O love, shall lie and cold
As his sad heart has lain
Under the moongrey nettles, the black mould.
And muttering rain.

I Know what my heart is like
    Since your love died: 
It is like a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
    Left there by the tide, 
A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.

The golden peacock flies away,
Where are you flying, pretty bird?
I fly across the sea,
Please ask my love to write a word,
To write a word to me!
I know your love, and I shall bring
A letter back, to say,
With a thousand kisses, that for spring
He plans the wedding day.

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given;
I hold his dear and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

His heart in me keeps him and me in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his.

Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses,—Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows:
Loses them too ; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
  O Love, has she done this to thee?
  What shall, alas !  become of me? 

As the apple tree among the trees of the wood,
    so is my beloved among the sons. 
I sat down under his shadow with great delight,
    his fruit was sweet to my taste. 
He brought me to the banquet hall.
    His banner over me is love. 
Strengthen me with raisins,
    refresh me with apples; 
    For I am faint with love.

Pale brows, still hands and dim hair,
I had a beautiful friend
And dreamed that the old despair
Would end in love in the end:
She looked in my heart one day
And saw your image was there;
She has gone weeping away.

Strephon kissed me in the spring,
  Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
  And never kissed at all.

Strephon's kiss was lost in jest,
  Robin's lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin's eyes
  Haunts me night and day.

Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss within the cup
And I'll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much hon'ring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me,
Since when it grows and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn
He was bold as a hawk and she soft as the dawn
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

"Now Rory be easy," sweet Kathleen would cry
Reproof on her lip but a smile in her eye
"With your tricks I don't know in troth what I'm about
Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out.

"O jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way
You've thrated my heart for this many a day
And tis plaz'd that I am and why not to be sure
For tis all for good luck." says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed then," says Kathleen," don't think of the like
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike
The ground that I walk on he loves I'll be bound."
"Faith," says Rory," I'd rather love you than the ground."

"Now Rory I'II cry if you don't let me go
Sure I drcam every night that I'm hating you so"
"Oh," says Rory," that same I'm delighted to hear
For dhrames always go by contrairies my dear."

"O jewel keep dhraming that same till you die
And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie
And tis plaz'd that I am and why not to be sure
Since tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah Kathleen my darling you've teased me enough
Sure I've thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff
And I've made myself drinking your health quite a baste
So I think after that I may talk to the priest."

Then Rory the rogue stole his arm round her neck
So soft and so white without freckle or speck
And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light
And he kissed her sweet lips don't you think he was right.

"Now Rory leave off sir you'll hug me no more
That's eight times today and you've kissed me before"
"Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure
For there's luck in odd numbers." says Rory O'More.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies bee.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking soules,
Which watch not one another out of feare;
For love all love of other sights controules,
And makes one little roome, an every where.
Let sea discoverrs to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have showne,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plain hearts doe in the faces rest,
Where can we find two better hemishpeares,
Without sharpe North, without declining West?
What ever dies, was not mixt equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

Naked I saw thee,
O beauty of beauty!
And I blinded my eyes
For fear I should flinch.

I heard thy music,
O sweetness of sweetness!
And I shut my ears
For fear I should fail.

I kissed thy lips
O sweetness of sweetness!
And I hardened my heart
For fear of my ruin.

I blinded my eyes
And my ears I shut,
I hardened my heart
And my love I quenched.

I turned my back
On the dream I had shaped,
And to this road before me
My face I turned.

I set my face
To the road here before me,
To the work that I see,
To the death that I shall meet.

Oh I have sown my love so wide
That he will find it everywhere;
It will awake him in the night,
It will enfold him in the air.

I set my shadow in his sight
And I have winged it with desire,
That it may be a cloud by day
And in the night a shaft of fire.

I hide myself within my flower,
That wearing on your breast,
You, unsuspecting wear me, too,
And angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower,
That, fading from your vase,
You, unsuspecting, feel for me
Almost a loneliness.

Seen my lady home las' night,
          Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight,
          Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye,
An' a smile go flittin' by --
          Jump back, honey, jump back.

Hyeahd de win' blow thoo de pine,
          Jump back, honey, jump back.
Mockin'-bird was singin' fine,
          Jump back, honey, jump back.
An' my hea't was beatin' so,
When I reached my lady's do',
Dat I could n't ba' to go --
          Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun' huh wais',
          Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an' took a tase,
          Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An' she answe'd, " 'Cose I do" --
          Jump back, honey, jump back.

Everyone imitated Marlowe. His first play, Tamburlaine, was staged when he was 23, and its success can most readily be gauged by its imitators. As David Riggs notes in his new biography, The World of Christopher Marlowe, within the next couple of years three new plays were staged that were more or less direct copies of Marlowe's original, while Shakespeare wrote his early Henry VI plays under the influence of Marlowe's style. A decade later, as the church authorities burned copies of Marlowe's semipornographic love poems in the streets, Shakespeare again returned to imitating his predecessor in As You Like It. Marlowe's contemporaries regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear; as his friend Thomas Nashe wrote, "No leaf he wrote on but was like a burning glass to set on fire all his readers."

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others, deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
'Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.'
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
'The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
'Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.'
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
  And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
  What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
  To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
  And wring his bosom - is to die.

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, 
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom 
    Ye learn your song: 
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, 
  Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air 
    Bloom the year long! 

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: 
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, 
    A throe of the heart, 
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, 
  No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, 
    For all our art. 

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men 
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, 
    As night is withdrawn 
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, 
  Dream, while the innumerable choir of day 
    Welcome the dawn.

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart that you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always, -
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

I haven't been posting much lately. Mostly, because I've been trying to meet people (i.e. girls) and I've been writing a lot of poems. I'm trying to put together a book of the love poems I've been writing, "Love Poems on Bar Napkins." I intend to send it to a book contest, maybe, though there's no chance with them. A better bet might be a small publisher in the fall or winter. I went to see Okkervil River after the poetry reading Sunday at Iota, and I enjoyed it.

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'
Love said, 'You shall be he.'
'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.'
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
'Who made the eyes but I?'

'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.'
'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'
'My dear, then I will serve.'
'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'
So I did sit and eat.

If you have some talent with words, why not take a few moments and try your hand at writing a poem for your lover? Just sit down and list all the reasons why you think they're special. Then put them into some kind of free verse format: a wide column of lines, roughly the same length, which may rhyme but don't need to.