Previous Poem. Jay Brown. Do You Love Me? Autoplay Next Video. Monday, July 30, Download image of this poem. Report this poem. I wish I could see them, but the signs aren't gleaming, And it's hard to know if you're my beau.
I really need to find out, If the love that I feel is shared, So here I go now, to confront my love, And see if we'll always be paired. Conkling I will not give thee all my heart For that I need a place apart To dream my dreams in, and I know Few sheltered ways for dreams to go: But when I shut the door upon Some secret wonder - still, withdrawn - Why dost thou love me even more, And hold me closer than before?
There be no bread, though crusts were sweet If I with manna may be fed. Shall I go all uncomforted? 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 freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. 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.
Do you remember still the falling stars that like swift horses through the heavens raced and suddenly leaped across the hurdles of our wishes—do you recall? And we did make so many! For there were countless numbers of stars: each time we looked above we were astounded by the swiftness of their daring play, while in our hearts we felt safe and secure watching these brilliant bodies disintegrate, knowing somehow we had survived their fall.
Speak earth and bless me with what is richest make sky flow honey out of my hips rigis mountains spread over a valley carved out by the mouth of rain.
And I knew when I entered her I was high wind in her forests hollow fingers whispering sound honey flowed from the split cup impaled on a lance of tongues on the tips of her breasts on her navel and my breath howling into her entrances through lungs of pain. Greedy as herring-gulls or a child I swing out over the earth over and over again. I am ready to forsake this worldly life and surrender to the magnificence of your Being.
I want to grow something. It seems impossible that desire can sometimes transform into devotion; but this has happened. I think I made you up inside my head. The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. My backpacking trip brought poems. Doors at pm. More info on my story. A post shared by Aman K. Batra amankbatra on Jan 4, at am PST. When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet.
I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me. Edit of an older poem. Bluebird Typewriter Poetry 7 poetry seanbates typewriter writersofinstagram.
You and I Have so much love, That it Burns like a fire, In which we bake a lump of clay Molded into a figure of you And a figure of me. Then we take both of them, And break them into pieces, And mix the pieces with water, And mold again a figure of you, And a figure of me. I am in your clay. You are in my clay. In life we share a single quilt.
In death we will share one bed. O never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost. And, alas! How little I thought, a year ago, In the horrible cottage upon the Lee That he and I should be sitting so And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee. We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
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