The 100 Best Love Poems of All Time

by Leslie Pockell

  The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

  In a beautiful pea-green boat,

  They took some honey, and plenty of money,

  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

  The Owl looked up to the stars above,

  And sang to a small guitar,

  “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,

  What a beautiful Pussy you are,

  You are,

  You are!

  What a beautiful Pussy you are!”

  Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!

  How charmingly sweet you sing!

  O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

  But what shall we do for a ring?”

  They sailed away, for a year and a day,

  To the land where the Bong-Tree grows,

  And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,

  With a ring at the end of his nose,

  His nose,

  His nose,

  With a ring at the end of his nose.

  “Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

  Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”

  So they took it away, and were married next day

  By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

  They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

  Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

  And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

  They danced by the light of the moon,

  The moon,

  The moon,

  They danced by the light of the moon.

  Love Song to Alex,1979

  Margaret Walker

  Various elements of a relationship can keep it strong and intact. In this poem Walker proposes devotion as the key piece in the intricate puzzle that holds her and her monkey-wrench man together.

  My monkey-wrench man is my sweet patootie;

  the lover of my life, my youth and age.

  My heart belongs to him and to him only;

  the children of my flesh are his and bear his rage.

  Now grown to years advancing through the dozens

  the honeyed kiss, the lips of wine and fire

  fade blissfully into the distant years of yonder

  but all my days of Happiness and wonder

  are cradled in his arms and eyes entire.

  They carry us under the waters of the world

  out past the starposts of a distant planet

  And creeping through the seaweed of the ocean

  they tangle us with ropes and yarn of memories

  where we have been together, you and I.

  When Sue Wears Red

  Langston Hughes

  The poet here uses the form and some of the language of a testifying preacher to sing the praises of an earthly—if classic—beauty.

  When Susanna Jones wears red

  Her face is like an ancient cameo

  Turned brown by the age.

  Come with a blast of trumpets,

  Jesus!

  When Susanna Jones wears red

  A queen from some time-dead Egyptian night

  Walks once again.

  Blow trumpets, Jesus!

  And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red

  Burns in my heart a love-fire sharp like pain.

  Sweet silver trumpets,

  Jesus!

  Those Who Love

  Sara Teasdale

  Not enough can be said about true love to do it justice, and so as a rule it is better kept private and unspoken. Still, what the heart feels is difficult to contain, and although words don’t speak loudly enough, actions can and always do.

  Those who love the most,

  Do not talk of their love,

  Francesca, Guinevere,

  Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,

  In the fragrant gardens of heaven

  Are silent, or speak if at all

  Of fragile inconsequent things.

  And a woman I used to know

  Who loved one man from her youth,

  Against the strength of the fates

  Fighting in somber pride

  Never spoke of this thing,

  But hearing his name by chance,

  A light would pass over her face.

  Reprise

  Ogden Nash

  Nash was famous for the wordplay and convoluted rhyme schemes of his humorous poetry, but here he gets serious for a moment, to touching effect. Perhaps everything about love and lovers has already been said, but every time two people fall in love, the familiar phrases all gain renewed meaning.

  Geniuses of countless nations

  Have told their love for generations

  Till all their memorable phrases

  Are common as goldenrod or daisies.

  Their girls have glimmered like the moon,

  Or shimmered like a summer moon,

  Stood like a lily, fled like a fawn,

  Now the sunset, now the dawn,

  Here the princess in the tower

  There the sweet forbidden flower.

  Darling, when I look at you

  Every aged phrase is new,

  And there are moments when it seems

  I’ve married one of Shakespeare’s dreams.

  One Word Is Too Often Profaned

  Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Shelley was never one to follow convention, and this love poem explicitly repudiates love for something the poet feels is even more profound: an adoration that transcends the world’s imperfection and aspires to a higher state of being.

  One word is too often profaned

  For me to profane it,

  One feeling too falsely disdained

  For thee to disdain it;

  One hope is too like despair

  For prudence to smother,

  And pity from thee more dear

  Than that from another.

  I can give not what men call love,

  But wilt thou accept not

  The worship the heart lifts above

  And the Heavens reject not,—

  The desire of the moth for the star,

  Of the night for the morrow,

  The devotion to something afar

  From the sphere of our sorrow?

  I Do Not Love You

  Pablo Neruda

  Neruda’s third wife, Matilde Urrutia, was the inspiration for many of the verses he wrote in 100 Love Sonnets. There is a strong sense that the love he speaks of in this poem is what he experienced with Matilde. Something passionate and profound, but also easy and natural . . .

  I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

  or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

  I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

  in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

  I love you as the plant that never blooms

  but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

  thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

  risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

  I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

  I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

  so I love you because I know no other way

  than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

  so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

  so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

  Gifts

  Juliana Horatia Ewing

  In June 1867 Juliana married army captain Alexander Ewing. Although they began their life and travels together, she eventually became ill and around 1879 returned to London, while her husband continued to be transferred around the world. “Gifts” illuminates Juliana’s thoughts during those years apart.

  You ask me what since we must part

  You shall bring back to me.

  Bring back a pure and faithful heart

  As true as mine to thee.

  You talk of gems from foreign lands,

  Of treasure, spoil, and prize. />
  Ah love! I shall not search your hands

  But look into your eyes.

  At Last

  Elizabeth Akers Allen

  Timing is everything, especially in matters of the heart. “At Last” tells of a deferred love affair—when the two lovers finally unite in their later years, their love is ultimately stronger than it ever could have been before, because the depths of their affection have been tested by time.

  At last, when all the summer shine

  That warmed life’s early hours is past,

  Your loving fingers seek for mine

  And hold them close—at last—at last!

  Not oft the robin comes to build

  Its nest upon the leafless bough

  By autumn robbed, by winter chilled,—

  But you, dear heart, you love me now.

  Though there are shadows on my brow

  And furrows on my cheek, in truth,—

  The marks where Time’s remorseless plough

  Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,—

  Though fled is every girlish grace

  Might win or hold a lover’s vow,

  Despite my sad and faded face,

  And darkened heart, you love me now!

  I count no more my wasted tears;

  They left no echo of their fall;

  I mourn no more my lonesome years;

  This blessed hour atones for all.

  I fear not all that Time or Fate

  May bring to burden heart or brow,—

  Strong in the love that came so late,

  Our souls shall keep it always now!

  To Alice B.Toklas

  Gertrude Stein

  Stein is famous for her support of cubism in its early years and her attempts to apply this artistic theory to writing. As a result, the meaning of much of her work is difficult to penetrate, but this passionate affirmation of love is as clear as crystal.

  Do you really think I would yes I would and

  I do love all you with all me.

  Do you really think I could, yes I could

  yes I would love all you with all me.

  Do you really think I should yes I should

  love all you with all me yes I should

  yes I could yes I would.

  Do you really think I do love all you

  with all me yes I do love all you with all

  me And bless my baby.

  Valentine

  Donald Hall

  This Valentine sentiment is playful but heartfelt. The poem’s vitality and power are heightened by the alternation of colorful images of animals in motion with the poet’s fervent declarations of love.

  Chipmunks jump, and

  Greensnakes slither.

  Rather burst than

  Not be with her.

  Bluebirds fight, but

  Bears are stronger.

  We’ve got fifty

  Years or longer.

  Hoptoads hop, but

  Hogs are fatter.

  Nothing else but

  Us can matter.

  Love’s Secret

  William Blake

  Blake was a mystical poet with more faith in sincere feelings than intellectual discourse. Perhaps the message here is that words can do more harm than good, and that true love is best expressed in other ways.

  Never seek to tell thy love,

  Love that never told can be;

  For the gentle wind doth move

  Silently, invisibly.

  I told my love, I told my love,

  I told her all my heart,

  Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,

  Ah! She did depart!

  Soon after she was gone from me,

  A traveler came by,

  Silently, invisibly:

  He took her with a sigh.

  I Knew a Woman

  Theodore Roethke

  This poem is a lyrical celebration of a man’s love of, and submission to, a woman’s physical charms. The repetitive rhyme scheme of the last lines of each stanza give the entire work a playful, almost childlike tone, though the subject is anything but.

  I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,

  When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;

  Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:

  The shapes a bright container can contain!

  Of her choice virtues only gods could speak,

  Or English poets who grew up on Greek

  (I’d have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek).

  How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,

  She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand,

  She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin;

  I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;

  She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,

  Coming behind her for her pretty sake

  (But what prodigious mowing we did make).

  Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:

  Her full lips pursued, the errant note to seize;

  She played it quick, she played it light and loose;

  My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;

  Her several parts could keep a pure repose,

  Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose

  (She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

  Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay;

  I’m martyr to a motion not my own;

  What’s freedom for? To know eternity.

  I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.

  But who would count eternity in days?

  These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:

  (I measure time by how a body sways).

  Love for a Hand

  Karl Shapiro

  This poem about a dream is itself dreamlike in its sudden yet quiet shifts in time, place, and reality. The hands of the husband and wife become almost living expressions of their love, and their union an ultimate consummation.

  Two hands lie still, the hairy and the white,

  And soon down ladders of reflected lights

  The sleepers climb in silence. Gradually

  They separate on paths of long ago,

  Each winding on his arm the unpleasant clew

  That leads, live as a nerve, to memory.

  But often when too steep her dream descends,

  Perhaps to the grotto where her father bends

  To pick her up, the husband wakes as though

  He had forgotten something in the house.

  Motionless he eyes the room that glows

  With the little animals of light that prowl

  This way and that, soft are the beasts of light

  But softer still her hand that drifts so white

  Upon the whiteness. How like a water-plant

  It floats upon the black canal of sleep,

  Suspended upward from the distant deep

  In pure achievement of its lovely want!

  Quietly then he plucks it and it folds

  And is again a hand, small as a child’s.

  He would revive it but it barely stirs

  And so he carries it off a little way

  And breaks it open gently. Now he can see

  The sweetness of the fruit, and his hand eats hers.

  It Is the Third Watch

  Anonymous

  Written in the sixteenth century by an unknown Korean poet, this poem offers a husband’s ecstatic vision of his wedding night and his lovely teenaged bride. There is passion here, clearly, but also the promise that this is just the beginning of the happy marriage of a well-matched pair.

  It is the third watch. The girl

  in the bridal bedroom is so gentle,

  so beautiful, I look and look again;

  I can’t believe my eyes.

  Sixteen years old, peach blossom complexion,

  golden hairpin, white ramie skirt,

  bright eyes agleam in playful glance,

  lips half-parted in a smile.


  My love! My own true love!

  Need I say ought

  of the silver in her voice

  and the wonder of her under the quilt.

  The Enchantment

  Thomas Otway

  In this charming lyric, the poet complains that he has lost all willpower and sighs all day for want of a little attention from his lover. And yet, while the poet is complaining all the while, the bouncy verse seems to show he’s as cheerful a helpless lover as could be imagined.

  I did but look and love a while,

  ’Twas but for one half-hour;

  Then to resist I had no will,

  And now I have no power.

  To sigh and wish is all my ease;

  Sighs, which do heat, impart,

  Enough to melt the coldest ice,

  Yet cannot warm your heart.

  Oh! Would your pity give my heart

  One corner of your breast,

  ’Twould learn of yours the winning art,

  And quickly steal the rest.

  The Silken Tent

  Robert Frost

  Winner of four Pulitzer Prizes, Robert Frost was one of the most esteemed American poets of the twentieth century. In “Silken Tent,” Frost combines a centuries-old poetic form—the sonnet— with the distinctly modern allegiance to colloquial language that is a defining characteristic of his work. Frost, a master of metaphor, creates a superbly sensuous effect in his description of a woman moving like a silken tent in a summer breeze.

  She is as in a field a silken tent

  At midday, when a sunny summer breeze

  Has dried the dew, and all its ropes relent

  So that in guys it gently sways at ease

  And its supporting central cedar pole

  That is its pinnacle to heavenward

  And signifies the sureness of the soul

  Seems to owe naught to any single cord

  But, strictly held by none, is loosely bound

  By countless silken ties of love and thought

  To everything on earth the compass ’round

  And only by one going slightly taut

  In the capriciousness of summer air

  Is of the slightest bondage made aware.

  Love Song

  William Carlos Williams

  Williams was a poet of the senses, creating chains of images that together evoke profound feelings. Here colors, especially tones of yellow, purple, and dark red, combine to express longing for a distant beloved.