Poemas sobre el tema: lady

Poemas sobre el tema «lady» en Poets.by.

AlegreDave Bonta

Social climbers

I was the same plain man with a king’s head ordinary as meat at a cook’s house but my lady would not suffer me to go into the garden in her hand one orange for my feast
AlegreDave Bonta

Funny tastes

Ice and snow go into a tavern— people demand them. I kiss a lady on a card and talk with a whistle.
AlegreDave Bonta

Food lovers

This is the way to my lady’s bed: a pasty full of fat, the moon in my hands.
AnsiosoDave Bonta

Walking dead

I walk alone seeing the fine ladies there humming to myself I fear I am dead under my clothes
RománticoDave Bonta

Courtly love

A fine lip the bottle had— my lady and her good night.
AlegreDave Bonta

Hands

my hands all morning meet to put things in order grow fat with content and love a falling out like the lord and lady of a nothing little town
TristeWalter de la Mare

An Epitaph

Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare--rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?
SoñadorJohn Gould Fletcher

Vision

You who flutter and quiver An instant Just beyond my apprehension; Lady, I will find the white orchid for you, If you will but give me One smile between those wayward drifts of hair. I will break the wild berries that loop themselves over the marsh-pool, For your sake, And the long green canes that swish against each other, I will break, to set in your hands. For there is no wonder like to you, You who flutter and quiver An instant Just beyond my apprehension.
RománticoAmy Lowell

A Lady

You are beautiful and faded Like an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord; Or like the sun-flooded silks Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. In your eyes Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, And the perfume of your soul Is vague and suffusing, With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. Your half-tones delight me, And I grow mad with gazing At your blent colours. My vigour is a new-minted penny, Which I cast at your feet. Gather it up from the dust,