I lose myself in the space at the base Of your neck, the wood hollow, a place Where rainwater collects and birds sing, The smoothest pool for my longing. I want to lay my tongue in the groove Of flesh, below the bone cupola. I want to stay there and not to move, To taste your skin of . . .
Wild Nights, Wild Nights! (269)
Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee! —Emily Dickinson For more love poems, see The . . .
To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you . . .
Oh You Whom
O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you, As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you, Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me. —Walt Whitman, for more love poems see Leaves of . . .
I Love You
When April bends above me And finds me fast asleep, Dust need not keep the secret A live heart died to keep. When April tells the thrushes, The meadow-larks will know, And pipe the three words lightly To all the winds that blow. Above his roof the swallows, In notes like far-blown . . .
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